


For in Darkness

by palpitations



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-12
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-07-23 16:21:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7470684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/palpitations/pseuds/palpitations
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As rumors of a magical disease begin to spread, the Ministry starts its secretive race for a cure, traversing down the slippery slope of immortality. Amid rising political tensions, Marlene Mckinnon and her fellow classmates find themselves in the middle of powerful forces, each one vying for the cure and the promised immortality it brings. But soon enough, they’re about to find out that they’ve been entrapped in something much larger than their inevitable mortal war. A Marauders Era mystery novella.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Brief Prologue: A Far Away December

**A Brief Prologue: A Far Away December**

The bronze kettle whistled along with the wind, which rammed against the windows.

The old man, who lived in the small flat above the post office, was making himself a cup of tea. He had an appointment at half past one and not a second later. 

Outside, seven shadows appeared with the tell-tale crack of apparition. Though they were named for stars and celestial bodies, they wore shadows as robes. They circled the town and looked at it, its hulking form of brick and wood. A town they once knew, once drank at, once laughed at, perhaps even lived in. And now-

Now they came to destroy it. 

The town was shrouded in darkness; the only light came from the moon, which winked conspiratorially. Inside the houses, the residents slept. The innocent, the blind, the disbelievers, the drunks. The fighting. 

The seven witches and wizards raised their wands and counted down from twenty. Some smothered fear and morality, and some smothered excitement. They all steeled their hands, and prepared to cast their spells. 

_ Twenty, nineteen, eighteen, seventeen.  _

The old man hummed to himself the tune to an old nursery rhyme:  _ Peverell brothers three, Death even  _ **_they_ ** _ could not flee.  _ The second hand on his ancient golden watch ticked, and he sipped at his tea.

_ Ten, nine, eight.  _

The seven witches and wizards looked at each other, nodding, scared, holding their breaths for - for what? They did not quite know. The merciless wind rushed against their red-tinged ears. 

_ One.  _

Their spells fell onto the town, and the bottom of the sky disappeared in flame, in death, in a darkness that was indescribable. An avalanche of force and destruction swarmed the city. Chipped cups fell off their shelves, paintings were broken and forever not the same. Then came the screams of a child, loud enough to separate the membranes in the middle ear. 

The old man watched the clock as it struck half past one and not a second later. He took another sip and thought,  _ the war has come at last. Right on schedule, as always _ . 

The single bulb in his flat winked out. 

 


	2. The Riddle of the Council

**Chapter One: The Riddle of the Council**

There was an unusual quiet about the house that morning. It had grown used to children running along its wooden spine and magic flying every which way, falling into it’s brick crevices. Even at this hour, it usually knew sound: the snores of children - grown now - and paintings and photographs. 

Not today. 

The quiet blanketed the air like dust. It was Too Silent, and the house knew it. And then-

There was a large cracking sound, sharp as a whip, and the still air shattered. A man landed on his knees, and a small pool of blood began to grow underneath him. His beaten briefcase landed next to him, and the organized sheaf of papers inside fell out in an explosion around him. Blood blossomed on the parchment. Quickly, a pair of potion-stained hands reached for a bottle of dittany. 

The man looked around at the mess he had made from his splinching. Then came his voice - a low, gruff male voice that bore signs of sleepless nights and a tinge of a Scottish accent - which said, “Well, bollocks,” and then, more quietly, it said, “Fuck,” and then it said, “Bollocks,” once more. 

And then it said nothing at all. And once more, the quiet fell down upon the house, save for the sound of shuffling papers and heavy boots trudging upstairs. 

 

XXX

 

“Oi! Pass the toast, will you?” Maverick Mckinnon demanded, leaning on the back two legs of his chair and glaring at his brother Maddox, who was well on his way to devouring the entire plate of toast. 

“Yeah, Mads, no need to hog it all. We’re already running short because Marc had the midnight munchies,” Maxwell added in. 

“Morning, fuckwits!”

“Speak of the devil,” Maxwell groaned as Marcell Mckinnon, fondly known as Marc, entered the kitchen with a cheery gusto. 

“Language, Marc!” Maddox chided, but nonetheless a smile twitched at his lips. He pushed up his glasses that were sliding down the bridge of his nose. 

“D’you kiss our mum with that mouth?” Maverick asked smartly.  

“As a matter of fact, I do,” Marcell Mckinnon retorted, as he gave a peck on the cheek to his mother, Merry, who swatted him away with a cheeky grin. 

“Third to last out of bed I see,” Merry Mckinnon noted as she ruffled Marcell’s hair. 

“Oi,” Marcell said as he ducked out of his mother’s reach, “this hair is a work of art. You would not believe the amount of time that goes into it.” 

She snorted in an indelicate manner, “Sorry to lay my hands on such sacredness. Would the work of art care for any tea this morning?” 

“That’d be excellent. Thanks, mum,” Marc said as he plopped himself at the table, and picked up the Quidditch section of  _ The Prophet _ and an unopened pack of digestives. He then proceeded to plop his gray sock clad feet on the table as well, which caused the Mckinnons to collectively wrinkle their noses in disgust. 

“Morning,” Marlene Mckinnon greeted halfheartedly, rubbing sleep from her eyes and treading into the bright kitchen. She stopped in the threshold of the door and scrunched her nose, “Merlin, it smells as if something curled up and  _ died _ .” 

“That’d be Marcell’s sense of hygiene,” Maddox added as he swept off Marcell’s feet from the table with his arm in one fell swoop, causing the front two legs of Marcell’s chair to come swiftly to the ground. Marcell yelped. 

Marlene shook her head, “How girls put up with you remains one of the world’s mysteries.” 

He pasted on a smarmy grin, “I’ll have you know that birds appreciate quidditch players’ skills in both quidditch and  _ other _ aspects-” 

“-God no, it is  _ much _ too early to hear about your escapades,” Marlene groaned, placing her hands over her ears in an effort to drown out any talk about Marcell’s “skills.” 

“All right, listen up here,” Marcell addressed Marlene, who raised a tired, wary brow, “my escapades happen to be  _ Prophet _ news,” he said, waving around the aforementioned newspaper, where sure enough, Marcell’s face was plastered across the paper along with a girl in a long string of girls, “any reporter in the world would love to hear about my life. But when I attempt to discuss personal matters with my own family, my own flesh and blood, you all just roll your eyes and  _ you _ ,” he said, directing his attention to his mother, “you go on about ‘settling down’ and ‘ _ grandchildren _ .’ Honestly, the lot of you.” 

“Someone took his snarky potion today,” Marlene muttered under her breath. 

“Oi! At least I don’t look like some - some kind of two pound prostitute,” Marcell shot back. 

Marlene stuck her tongue out from across the table, but straightened her makeshift nightie - an old quidditch jumper from Maverick’s Hogwarts quidditch kit that bore the Hufflepuff colors and the name Mckinnon on the back - now conscious of the fact that it only barely covered her thighs.  

“All right Marc, that’s enough,” Merry interrupted, putting a hand on her son’s shoulder, “your sister is very lovely,” (And she really was quite lovely),  “and we would love to hear about your personal life. I mean, if  _ anything _ , we could always just sell the information for a few sickles. The couch does need upholstering.” 

“Oh, brilliant idea, Mum!” Maddox said, as he fetched a spare bit of parchment and a quill, “I’ve been meaning to get some robes mended and a set of new quills. Please, tell us more about your personal life,” He said to Marcell, eyes wide and quill ready to take notes. 

“Excellent,” Maxwell said in agreement, “there are some stealth spells calling my name.” 

“I do need a new pair of gloves,” Maverick nodded. 

“And I would greatly appreciate some spending money for Hogsmeade; Honeydukes is getting more expensive each year,” Marlene added. 

Marcell scowled and slouched in his seat, “Well, now I don’t feel up to talking about my personal life if you’re only going to capitalize off of it, you-you Capitalists,” he finished weakly. 

“Oh, be a good sport, Marc,” Merry said joshingly, “you even said that the couch was an abomination. Wouldn’t you like to see it upholstered? I’m thinking a nice, dark leather. Thoughts?”

There were nods and sounds of assent.  

“Family is all about giving,” Maxwell added on. 

“You are all wankers.” 

“Lovable wankers,” Marlene argued. 

“Slightly lovable, blood-related wankers,” Marcell rephrased. 

“So glad to be held in such high esteem,” Marlene mumbled. 

“Anything for you, Marls,” Marc said as he reached over to rumple Marlene’s already disheveled waves. She leaned away from his hand and grimaced. 

This created a domino effect, and soon every one of the Mckinnon boys was rubbing her head and tangling her hair as if she was a statue, rubbed gold for good luck. 

“You’re all fucking squares,” She muttered under her breath grouchily. 

“Language,” Maddox teased with a cheeky grin, as he pushed his sliding glasses once again up his nose. 

She found herself sticking out her tongue for the second time that breakfast. 

Merry sighed and slid a plate in front of Marlene, “Eat your fill, long day ahead.” 

 

XXX

 

“Has anyone seen my broom?” Marlene yelled down the hallway, which had become a disaster zone, strewn with jumpers and trousers and robes, a whole mash of scraps of parchment, and little trinkets: a pressed flower from Mary’s family’s grocer’s, a faded postcard from Cokeworth, a coupon for Sleekeazy’s. 

“Have you checked the floor? It seems as if all your possessions are there,” Maverick, smart arse that he was, said with an amused grin. 

“Har har,” she said back, much more unamused. 

“Is this it?” Maverick eventually said, pulling a broom free from a pile of shoes and some melted Honeydukes. 

Marlene cheered with glee and ran over to snatch it, but Maverick pulled it away from her grasp. 

“Look, Marls,” he said, his face becoming all too serious, “before you leave, there’s just something I want to say.”

She raised an impatient brow and crossed her arms in anticipation. 

“I know you don’t want to listen to your older brother, or anyone, rather, but--”

“--Listen, Mav. I’ve heard it nearly a dozen times in the past week: Don’t make the same mistakes that I did this summer. I get it, I really do.” 

He raised an eyebrow and lowered the broom, handing it to his sister, “Alright,” he said slowly. 

“I promise. You know how much I mean it,” she said more sincerely, more urgently. 

“Alright,” he repeated. 

“Right then,” Marlene said lamely, taking the broom and hurrying back to her room in her frantic aspiration to finish packing before they had to depart to King’s Cross. 

“Marlene, darling,” Merry shouted up the stairs, “Didn’t I tell you to be packed by today?” 

Marlene grumbled in response. 

“I expect you to be packed by half past ten,” Merry continued. 

“And come get your textbooks,” Maddox shouted as well, and Marlene scurried to grab the stack of handed down books that had circulated through the family. 

“Right, thanks,” she said hurriedly. 

“Don’t mention it,” Maddox managed, but Marlene had already disappeared, a formidable force, struggling to pack all her worldly possessions inside a trunk. 

“Where’s Maxwell gone off to?” Merry shouted, once again. 

The Mckinnon Mansion had quite a lot of shouting in it at all times.

“Gone off to the shops,” Marcell answered back, using a similar volume, “Marls is running low on ink.” 

“D’you mind sending a patronus and telling him to pick up some spare floo powder? We’re almost out,” Merry returned. 

Marcell groaned, but soon enough the tell-tale words of the patronus charm were uttered.  

“Has anyone seen dad?” Marlene shouted, “he promised that I could use his spare potions kit, the one with the silver cauldron.” 

“What’s wrong with your pewter cauldron?” Merry asked, carrying a stack of folded Hogwarts robes.

“It’s only nearly a decade old,” Marlene countered, taking the newly-washed stack of robes with a grateful look, and throwing them inside her increasingly worn trunk. 

“Give him another half an hour of sleep,” Merry said, “he came in very, very late.”

Marlene nodded and returned to tying up her letters and pictures and posters in string. She paused for a moment, examining the photograph at the top of the stack. She waved to the photograph’s toddler James and Marlene, who were sitting on their toy broomsticks. The pair waved back cheerily, nearly falling over in the process. 

“Honestly, you children. You had all summer to pack, but an hour before you leave you choose to begin,” Merry sighed, as she folded up Maddox’s Ravenclaw jumper, and stacked it along with her other brother’s jumpers: Maverick’s Hufflepuff Quidditch jumper, Marcell’s Gryffindor Quidditch jumper (on which ‘CAPTAIN’ was embroidered on the back), and finally Maxwell’s Slytherin jumper. Though they came in a whole different array of colors, all had the name ‘Mckinnon’ embroidered somewhere. 

Marlene sighed, “But mum, see that’s the thing. Teenagers are just built to do things at the very last minute. That’s when we do things the best too. It’s practically a science,” she took the stack of her brothers’ jumpers and tossed them inside her trunk. 

“Some science,” Merry said, smoothing the wrinkles of a Hogwarts regulation skirt.  

“Did I hear ‘science?’” Avior Mckinnon, renowned potioneer of the Wizarding World, said with a sleepy smile as he trudged forward into the room, slippers rubbing against the dark wood floors.

“You were supposed to sleep a while longer,” Merry chided, a worried look on her brow. Avior placed a kiss on her temple, smoothing the worry lines away. 

“Dad!” Marlene said, happy and relieved, “Do you have that spare potions kit on hand? The one with the silver cauldron,” she clarified, “not pewter.”

“Ah,” He said, running a hand through his graying hair, “why don’t you check downstairs? I think I left my briefcase there when I got in.” 

She gave a nod, and hurried downstairs quickly. She discovered her father’s worn, monogrammed briefcase, papers astrew. She sighed, “Oh, dad.” 

She collected the papers in a neat stack and shuffled them inside the briefcase. The papers were all a little blurry to her, an indication that they had been charmed like most confidential Ministry documents were. Her brow furrowed as she noticed the back of a photograph under the table. 

“Ah, I thought I had dropped some papers,” Avior said, good-naturedly with a faint blush. 

“Just a few,” she handed back his briefcase and went to retrieve the photograph from under the table. She smiled at the photograph, one of her and her father’s favorites. 

In it, child Marlene was examining a potion with her father. Her face was filled with wonder as she gestured towards the purple bubbles that rose from the gold cauldron under her nose, while her father was eye level with the desk it rested on, a smile evident in his eyes. When the smaller Marlene noticed her older counterpart examining the photograph, she grinned and gestured wildly to the potion. 

Marlene cracked a small smile, “Here you go.” 

“Ah,” Avior beamed, “The photograph was fading a little. I thought maybe a bit of potion could do it some good. And a new frame. Might even get it painted.” 

“Glad to hear it’s still sitting in your office.”

“Of course,” He said, sounding almost offended, “the first potion my daughter ever brewed. My colleagues are still very impressed.” 

Marlene scoffed, “Tell that to the Acceptable I received in Potions last year.”

“Well, certain circumstances--” Avior managed. 

“I know,” Marlene sighed, “I know, I know.” 

“Of course you do,” he said with a tired smile. He rummaged inside his briefcase for a while, eventually coming across the spare potions kit. 

“Here you g--”

“Thanks bunches!” And she was off like a shot again. 

Avior stared blankly after his daughter - now an empty space as she rushed off to finish her packing- blinking. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, cleaning the lenses with the sleeve of a tweed, patched robe. Inside his briefcase, there was only the sound of something rattling softly, very close. Dread came trundling up his gut, and suddenly, the room felt flimsy, tenuous, like a paper house about to fall over. 

Avior Mckinnon sighed and put his glasses back on, pasting a false smile on his face, and tucked away his briefcase very carefully. 

 

XXX

In the stormy evening light, the granite of Hogwarts seemed to radiate light. At the highest tides, the Black Lake crept into the basements of the Slytherin and potions dungeons. At the lowest, the barnacled ribs of boats poked their heads above the lapping waters. The castle itself seemed to rise higher and higher, the turrets nearly touching the sky. 

Lily Evans sat in the window ledge, her friends and roommates rustling by in their hurry to get ready for bed. She lightly pushed open the window, and the cool air rushed into the round dorm. She frantically grabbed at the parchment and quill on her lap and the hovering inkpot before they were blown away. From the bathroom, she heard faint shouts of, “Have you seen those hair charms I left out on the sink?” and the more frantic, “Where did my wand  _ go _ ?”

She felt at peace, despite the summer, despite the coldness that filled her home in Cokeworth. But for the first time in a few months, she felt at home. She hummed to herself a lonely song, something that sounded like harp strings, like a golden boat traveling along the Black Lake, a cascade of harmonies that transformed the air: the trees and the roads and the shops seemed masked by mist, the air streaming with the possibility of the new year. 

“Would you stop that? You’re causing a ruckus.” 

Ah, there it was. Lily smiled a smile, tinged with mischief. She raised her eyes to meet Bonnie Selwyn’s cold, annoyed ones. The fellow sixth year roommate had apparently been so annoyed with Lily’s humming (she wasn’t a musical prodigy, but she wasn’t  _ too _ terrible) that she had stopped on her way down the stairs to tell her so. 

“Sorry, Bonnie,” Lily said, sounding not very sorry at all. 

“Hmm,” Bonnie responded. 

“Oi!” Marlene cried out, poking her head out of the bathroom threshold, “Lils, please close the window, Mary and I are catching pneumonia from the wind,” she said, in the middle of a teeth cleaning charm. 

Lily dutifully closed the window, and settled under the slightly musty red and gold embroidered duvet,  _ her _ slightly musty red and gold embroidered duvet, collecting her writing materials once more into her lap. 

“Thanks, Lovely,” Marlene called out, and Lily winced at the nickname. “Lovely” was the nickname Slughorn had given to her, and she detested all the connotations that came with it. “Lovely” was the nickname of a frail deer of a girl, a girl who followed the rules to the fault and always raised her hand politely.

Only a few minutes later, Marlene Mckinnon plopped down on Lily’s bed, causing her quill to go astray. Lily sighed and charmed away the stain of a word; she was, after all, always a perfectionist at heart. Marlene nestled into the nook of Lily’s arm. 

“What are you writing?” She asked, reaching over Lily to tune Mary’s Wizarding Wireless that sat on Mary’s bedside table. 

“Just some letters,” Lily replied. 

“To?”

“My mum,” Lily said hesitantly, before adding on, “and Petunia.” 

Marlene stopped, turning to look at Lily, “ _ Petunia?  _ Why? She treats you like shit.” 

“She-She’s been busy lately. I think her boyfriend and her are in some kind of spat about drills, it’s really weird. And secretarial college isn’t going as smoothly as she’d like, I don’t think she has very many friends. I mean, she’s well-liked--”

“--Can’t imagine why.”

“--And her old school friends, I think they’re moving on from Tuney. They used to all go dancing at the disco techs every other Friday, and now they don’t at all. I just think she’s been having a hard time.”

“For the past five years? Look, Lils, whatever’s happening in her life doesn’t justify the way she treats you,” Lily made a sound of protest, and Marlene sighed, “You’re too nice for your own good, you know that, right?”

“Too nice? Is that even possible?”

“Sure it is. There are people, who are kind and compassionate, and then there are people, who are  _ too _ nice. Too nice is when you start being a doormat, back me up here, Mary,” Marlene shouted to the bathroom. 

Mary emerged, pulling her dark, cloud-like hair into a ballerina bun, “She’s right, you know. There’s such a thing as kind and compassionate with a backbone, and then there’s ‘too nice.’”

“Oi!” Lily protested, “I have a backbone!” 

“Yeah?” Marlene asked, raising a brow, “then why,” she challenged, “did I see you talking to Snape on the train?” 

“He has a first name, you know,” she snapped instinctively. 

“That wasn’t an answer,” Marlene noted. 

Lily paused in her defense, and even Mary looked on expectantly, waiting for her response. The only sound was the small talk of their other roommates, getting ready for sleep and the whistle of the Scotland wind against the pane of the glass. 

“I didn’t know you saw that,” Lily answered, almost quietly, “fine. Yes, I was talking to him.”

Mary cocked her head, looking disappointed, “Lily…” she began. 

“Don’t ‘Lily’ me. I know what Mulciber did to you, Mary, but--”

“But what?” Mary challenged, crossing her arms. Her dark cheeks were tinged with a shade of anger. 

Lily relented, “They’re-they’re not the same, aren’t they? You don’t know Sev like I do--”

“--and thank Merlin for that!” Marlene interjected, “he called you a-a you know.”

“A  _ mudblood _ ,” Lily snapped, “you can say it. It doesn’t mean anything to me, my blood is the same as his. It flows through our veins all the same.” 

“Maybe so,” Marlene murmured, “but it doesn’t change the fact that he’s joined up with a bad crowd.” 

“Just because he’s friends with them doesn’t mean they’re the same. That’d be like saying you’re the same as-as Dorcas or James,” Lily addressed Marlene, “or you with Tilden or Daisy,” she nodded to Mary. 

“Merlin knows I’m nothing like Dorcas,” Marlene answered in response, “but all the same, we still share many of the same beliefs. You’re right. Sna-” she corrected herself at Lily’s glare, “Severus isn’t exactly like his friends, but they have to share some common ground.” 

Lily remained quiet, “Maybe.”

“There’s no ‘maybe’ about it,” Mary piped up, “Marlene’s right. Some people don’t deserve second chances.” 

“People deserve second chances!” 

“And then third chances and fourth chances and fifth chances and so on. It’ll never end, Lily. At some point, you just,” Marlene paused, “you just have to let go and stop giving people chances.”

The dormitory was very quiet for a moment, before Lily finally said, “ _ Maybe _ .”

Marlene and Mary nodded. 

“It’s for the best,” Marlene said. 

“Really, it is, ” Mary added. 

Lily pressed her lips into a tight smile. 

Her two friends returned the sentiment and beamed. They went to their respective beds, listening to Mary’s Wizarding Wireless quietly while Lily finished her letter. 

When her friends were pre-occupied with tacking up posters and unpacking, she conjured a small petunia and slipped it into the envelope addressed to her sister. 

She was stubborn like that. 

 

XXX

 

“Don’t tempt me,” Marlene groaned from behind the drawings of Mary’s bed, gathered together with two of her close friends, swiping away Lily’s proffered, half-crushed cauldron cake. 

“We made a list of all the candy we’d need for the entire year,” Lily said, clutching her full stomach, “we packed candy for the entire year, and then we ate the candy for the  _ entire year _ in one night.” 

“No one ever said Gryffindor wasn’t the house for the daring,” Mary said, curled up and surrounded by discarded pumpkin pasty wrappers. 

“If I eat  _ any more _ , I swear to Merlin, I will swell up and float away,” Marlene groaned, nibbling at a stray licorice wand. 

“As if that could ever happen,” Mary laughed out, and then grabbed her abdomen, groaning, “oh Merlin, laughing hurts.” 

“I have a joke,” Marlene declared, sitting up, her eyes bright with laughter, “what candy is never punctual?”

“Oh no, not this on-” Mary grumbled. 

“Choco _ late _ !” Marlene finished before doubling over in laughter. She hiccuped once, and then resumed laughing. 

“My stars, that-that was terrible, Marlene,” Lily said. 

“Lils, you have no right. You make the worst jokes I’ve ever heard.” 

“I’ll have you know my jokes are hilarious, Order of Merlin worthy, really.”

“You’re the only one who laughs at them,” Mary pointed out, “and Marlene’s right. They’re truly horrendous.” 

“Oi! I’ll not have you two poking fun at my amazing comedic skills,” Lily defended herself, “here’s a wonderful joke right now.” 

Mary and Marlene groaned in unison. 

“Oh shush, this one’s really good. Better than Marlene’s anyway. Alright,” she began, eyes smiling, “an invisible man marries an invisible woman,” she paused for effect, “the kids were nothing to look at either.”

She erupted into laughter, including some indelicate snorts, while Mary and Marlene looked on. 

“Oh, that’s  _ bad _ ,” Mary said. 

“Don’t insult my joke, you might hurt its feelings.”

“Lily,” Marlene said, looking directly into her friend’s eyes, “that’s  _ really _ bad. That’s-that’s post-Sirius-Black’s-birthday-bash hangover bad.” 

“Now, you’re just being cruel.” 

Marlene sighed and slung an arm around her shoulders, “It’s alright, Lils. We still love you, terrible jokes and all.” 

“It’s a promise,” Mary nodded her assent, letting a smile play around her lips. 

Marlene was suddenly struck by how much she cared for her friends. There was Lily, who said ‘my stars’ all too much and made her own charms and laughed like light. There was Mary, who had become so strong since the past year, who drank Ogden’s with an iron stomach, but snuck to the greenhouses to cut flowers for their dorm.

Time slowed. The dorm, the bed hangings, the stones of the floor disappeared. Did anyone love anyone as much as these silly youths loved each other? Yes, but they were here now, and they were so, so _alive_ , and they loved each other all too much.  

Marlene slung her other arm around Mary’s dark shoulders, “It’s going to be a great year. I can feel it.” 

They basked in the moment, until Lily poked Marlene’s stomach, “That feeling’s probably the chocolate frog I gave you. I found it under the bed from last year. There may or may not have been dust involved.”

Marlene shrieked and threw an assortment of wrappers and pillows at Lily’s snickering face. Mary laughed heartily, before also tossing her share of pillows and crushed candies at her friends. 

The laughter from behind Mary’s bed hangings was so pure and bright that even the stars above Hogwarts beamed. 

 

XXX

 

It was only the first day, and already they fell into their well-practiced routine: Peter knicked himself doing his shaving charm, and in response, Sirius made uncouth blood jokes that would  _ never _ leave the dorm, using a poor imitation of his mother’s voice. James lost his glasses (three times), and the four of them tore up the room trying to find them.  _ Three  _ times. Remus couldn’t find his prefect pin, only to realize that Sirius had hidden it. Sirius couldn’t find his wand, only to realize James had hidden it. James couldn’t find his glasses (for the fourth time), only to realize that Peter had hidden them. 

Only, he couldn’t see Peter silently laughing, because, well, he couldn’t  _ see _ . 

But in the end, they made it down to the Great Hall, panting and laughing and complaining about “those  _ damn _ seven flights,” convinced they were late, only to realize that Remus charmed the clocks. 

“You  _ cheeky _ bast--” James began, as they trudged into the nearly empty Hall. Remus’ Cheshire grin gave it away. 

“--Whatever could you be talking about?” Remus asked, smirking. 

“One day,” Peter said, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes, “you will wake up at a ridiculously early time because of a charmed alarm clock, and not one of us will feel sorry for you.” 

Remus smiled, “The anticipation is killing me.” 

“You’ll rue the day,” Sirius agreed with Peter, as he slumped down at the Great Hall table, and rested his head on his hand. 

“It’s a new school year, lads,” Remus said, too cheerful for that early of a morning, looking on at all of his tired, half-asleep friends, “why not start it bright and early?”

“Early is about right, but  _ Merlin _ , it’s still dark outside,” James groaned. 

“What a cruel joke,” Peter added, “you know poor James desperately needs all the beauty sleep he can get.” 

James threw a hash brown at Peter in response. 

“His deformed form will forever be on my conscience,” Remus replied. 

“When I fall asleep in History of Magic and get points taken from Gryffindor,” Sirius said, eyes still half-closed, “that better be on your conscience.”

“You act like you never fall asleep in History of Magic,” James said, quizzically.

“Well, new year, new leaf, maybe it’s time that I stay awake in Binns’ class and learn something, right?” Sirius asked. 

There was a brief silence, before all four boys burst into laughter. 

“But in all seriousness,” Sirius said with a wide grin, “it  _ is _ a new year. And you know what that means…” 

There was a brief pause, before comprehension dawned on their faces. 

“Padfoot, mate,” Peter said, sharing the same expression, “I do believe that Gryffindor has no points to lose.”

James Potter shared a mischievous look with his friends, “Why, Wormtail, I do believe you’re right.” 

“Now,” Remus said, clasping his hands together, “aren’t you glad we got an early start to the year?” 

All three of them threw hash browns and sausages at Remus Lupin’s smarmy grin. 

 

XXX

 

An hour and a half later, when Lily, Marlene and Mary hurried down to the Great Hall, also cursing those  _ damn  _ seven flights,  _ actually _ late, they grabbed pieces of toast and their schedules from a disapproving McGonagall and headed out of the nearly-empty Hall. 

“Waa o’ vee av?” Lily asked, stuffing her schedule into her bag with her piece of buttered toast in her mouth. 

“E’ fink va av efes,” Marlene replied, similarly holding her toast in her mouth and scanning the schedule. 

“Oi,” Mary, always the fastest eater out of the three, said, swallowing a bite, “English, please.” 

Marlene took a bite and swallowed, “I think we have Defense.”

“Oh!” Lily said, “with the new professor, right?”

“Dearborn, right?” Marlene asked. 

“Right,” Mary nodded, and then she cast a time spell, “ _ and _ he would have been expecting us about two minutes ago.”

“Do we run?” Lily asked, rolling up her sleeves in anticipation. 

“We run,” Marlene nodded, and the three took off, sprinting to the classroom, cursing those  _ damn _ magical staircases and Marlene’s  _ damn _ Quidditch legs and all that  _ damn _ candy. 

The three girls used the word “damn” very freely when they were five minutes late to their first class of the year.

Eventually, they burst through the heavy door, panting, and Professor Dearborn simply looked at them curiously. They gasped for their missing breath, and Mary bent over in exhaustion. 

“Hullo, girls,” Dearborn finally greeted, “glad you could join us this fine morning.” 

“Sorry, Professor,” Lily said, smiling sweetly, “I was just helping some first years with their way around the castle. Prefect duties, you know. I dragged these two into it as well. I really hope you don’t mind; they were so lost, the poor dears.” 

“Well, who am I to go against prefect duties?” he replied, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips, “take your seats, girls. And try to resist the urge to help next time. I don’t take tardiness lightly, especially a second time.” 

“Yes, sir,” Lily said, and when he turned around, she saluted him and grinned mischievously at her friends. They took empty seats at the front of the classroom, an unfortunate arrangement that was the result of their lateness. 

“Now,” Professor Dearborn said, turning around to face the classroom, “before I was so rudely interrupted,  I was introducing myself.” 

And then, of course, Professor Dearborn was rudely interrupted once more. 

“Hi, professor,” Remus Lupin said, entering the room, with a sheepish grin, covered in what appeared to be a variety of breakfast foods, “excuse the tardiness. Would you believe that we were helping first-years around out of kindness and er-”

“-Prefect duties,” James hissed out of the side of his mouth. 

“-Right, prefect duties,” he finished with a sickly sweet smile. 

Dearborn looked Remus up and down, raising a brow at the egg yolk that was slowly sliding down his face, what appeared to be a hash brown wedged in the folds of his robe, and a mystery sausage in his messy hair. He then turned his gaze to Remus’ companions, the three of which all seemed to be donning a combination of cat hair and leaves and scratches. 

“Well, looks as if this year’s batch of prefects have really outdone themselves,” Dearborn commented a bit warily, “take your seats, gentleman.”

James grinned widely, and the four found seats also near the front, which, as we’ve established, was simply an unfortunate byproduct of tardiness. 

“ _ Now _ ,” Professor Dearborn said, shooting a glare at the door, as if he were expecting another rude interruption, “I’m Professor Dearborn; I’ll be your new Defense professor for the year. I’ve just retired from my career as a curse breaker in Egypt, and I greatly look forward to this year,” he said, flicking his wand, causing a stack of papers to fly to each students’ desk, “I’d like to review the year’s syllabus before we begin.” 

“I like him,” Lily whispered to Marlene, who was seated between Lily and Mary. 

“He seems cool,” Mary agreed, also whispering. 

Marlene took note of him, from the salt-and-pepper hair and beard. He had a weathered face, but it was kind when he smiled. His nose zig-zagged every which way, a sign that it had been broken many times. He had a ring on his right hand, and it might have been incredibly ostentatious once, but now it was simply a cracked, scratched ruby set in beaten, weathered gold. His voice was velvet, tinged with smoke: slow, soft, and a bit ragged. He held himself as if he had ran the world once (and maybe he had, Marlene didn’t know), but had a slight limp. He radiated wild green and the smell of Earth after rain and the feel of a lock tumbler sliding into place. 

“Yeah,” Marlene agreed after a while, “he’s cool. ‘reckon he’ll be able to teach us a lot.” 

Someone in the back of the classroom shushed the three, and they shared exasperated expressions before turning their attention back to the front of the classroom. 

Professor Dearborn was animated, gesturing wildly with his wand as he launched into a course overview about dark creatures, hexes, curses, and even a tangent about his own experiences in Egypt. His wand shot out inadvertent sparks in ruby red, in bright gold. The class was on the edge of their seat; the room was full of anticipation and, ironically, magic. 

“And while all of that is well and good,” Dearborn said with a cheeky grin, “we should address exams.” 

There was a loud collective grin from the class, and he raised a brow, “Now, now, don’t jump up and down just yet. As I’m sure you all know, this is a N.E.W.T. level class, and your N.E.W.T.s are fast approaching,” another collective groan, “though you may not think so, them being two years away and all. You will have your sixth year exams at the end of the year, of course, but I’ve decided to instead have two smaller practicals, one before the winter hols and one at the end of the year. The practical will be an obstacle course of sorts, set up on the school grounds and filled with a variety of dark arts. Rest assured, it will be very safe. Dumbledore has approved of my plan, and professors will be observing everything and will be ready to interfere should trouble present itself. Not to mention, I’ll be setting up wards around the course.” 

This caused quite a bit of chittering and whispering, as well as some moans at the prospect of  _ that _ much studying. 

“I’m sure there are many mixed feelings about this arrangement, but,” his face turned hard, stony cold, “these practicals will be good indicators of whether you will be able succeed at your Defense N.E.W.T. So remember,” he said, his eyes cold and scanning the room, “if you fail the practical, you will be recommended to drop this class.” 

There was some nervous twittering, and one student swallowed audibly. 

“Of course,” he said with a smile, “I wouldn’t have you go in alone. You will be partnered for the whole of the year. During this time, you will learn your partner’s dueling style, their study habits, their abilities under pressure, their flight or fight instinct. And for your own sakes, for your own survival, you  _ will _ become a team.” 

Mary’s grip on her wand tightened, and she bore a mischievous smile, “I’m always up for a challenge,” she murmured to her friends. 

Lily cracked her knuckles in anticipation and grinned, “Merlin, Marls, Mary, I think it’s been,” she paused and thought, “much too long since we had a professor who offered a challenge.”

“Why, Lily,” Marlene shared a matching grin, “I think you’re right.” 

Inside her chest, pulsed something huge, something full of recklessness and childish naivete, something unafraid. 

“Onto partners,” Dearborn announced, charming a sheet of paper so that names appeared and were partnered off in a random fashion, “I would’ve liked to have solely Gryffindor-Slytherin pairings,” this announcement caused a good bit of whispering and groaning, “but unfortunately, there wasn’t an equal balance between the two. More Gryffindors than Slytherins, so some lucky lions will be with their own house.  

Lily Evans did not consider herself lucky when she saw the name next to hers. 

 

XXX

 

“Burke is going to kill me when my back is turned in that obstacle course,” Sirius murmured darkly, as he walked with his friends in the hallway. 

“I’ve got Dorcas Meadowes, mate,” Peter offered, a sort of conciliation, “she scares me shitless.” 

Remus brightened and suggested, “You should talk to Marlene. She and Dorcas are mates, aren’t they, James?” Remus asked. 

James, who had been pre-occupied with his thoughts, was shaken out of his reverie, “What?” he asked, looking a bit worried and confused, “what was that you said?” 

“Aren’t Dorcas and Marlene mates?” Remus repeated. 

James paused, thinking, “Yeah, she would know more about Dorcas than anyone in the school. Marlene’s really the only mate Dorcas has. Talk to her when you have a chance, Pete.” 

“Right,” Peter said, then furrowed his brow, “are you okay, James?” 

“I-,” he paused, “I’m all right. Been better, been worse. Mostly worried that Lily won’t speak to me, and I’ll die in the obstacle course. Then again, don’t the Muggles say that only the good die young?” he rambled on a bit. 

“Oh come off it,” Remus said, “Lily’s forgiven you, you’re overreacting, and you’re not going to  _ die _ . Also, I think it’s been a few years since you’ve qualified as ‘good.’” 

“Except,” James said, holding up a finger to interrupt his friend, “Lily hasn’t forgiven me, I’m not overreacting, and I think the chances of me dying inside an obstacle course packed with dark creatures increases significantly when my partner hasn’t spoken a word to me since school started.” 

“But look at it this way, Prongs,” Sirius said with a cheeky grin, “if you die in the obstacle course, the chances of us getting invited to a ghost party increases substantially.” 

James snorted,“Glad you’ve got your priorities straight.”

“I can see it now: Jovial James enjoying the company of Nearly Headless Nick and the Bloody Baron,” Peter supplied. 

“Jovial James?” Remus asked, a small smile playing at his lips, “I was thinking more along the lines of Jinxed James, assuming that’s how you’re going to go. No offense.” 

“None taken, since that’s the way  _ you’re _ going to go if we keep on talking about my impending death this year.” 

“Jocular! No, wait, Juvenile James!” Sirius proclaimed proudly, bearing a smirk. 

“I’m disowning you three,” James said flatly, “you can say goodbye to the Sleekeazy’s fortune.” 

Sirius let out a low whistle, “Jaded James.”

“Jagged James,” Peter followed.

“Jeering James,” Remus finished. 

James raised a brow, “Just-done-with-you-three James.” 

“I don’t like that one as much as ours,” Peter said with a grin. 

“How about Jailed James? I think that would be very fitting, considering the punishment you’re about to receive.” A stern familiar voice rang out. The four boys stopped in their tracks, all turning towards the source, though they knew exactly who it was.

Professor McGonagall stood in the middle of the hallway, students streaming past her, crossing her arms, tapping her fingers, and wearing a very disapproving look. 

“Ah, Minnie, aren’t you a ray of sunshine on this desolate day?” Sirius said, breaking the silence with a grin that was too cheeky for Minerva Mcgonagall’s liking. 

She raised a brow, “Oh, Mr. Black, you can be assured that I  _ will _ be a ray of sunshine once you four retrieve Mrs. Norris from the Whomping Willow, where you placed her this morning.”

“But, Professor. Hear me out: It was self defense, really, truly,” Remus attempted, “that little devi-” James cleared his throat and shook his head; Remus sighed and corrected himself, “-cat chased us into the greenhouse with the Venomous Tantaculas. Professor, do you know how hard it is to run away from Venomous Tantaculas at seven in the morning?” 

“And whose fault was it that we were awake by seven?” Peter murmured under his breath. Remus elbowed him. 

“It’s quite hard, Professor,” Remus answered his own question, “there were traumatizing experiences involved.”

“Therapy-worthy, really,” Sirius added. 

“Honestly, the school should be paying  _ us _ after all we’ve gone through,” James nodded, looking very somber. 

“Students being chased by vicious cats into a forest of Venomous Tantaculas? Now, that just won’t do. What would the Prophet say when they catch wind of this?” Peter asked innocently. 

McGonagall’s eyes narrowed, “They would say, ‘Why did Hogwarts let those rapscallions run amuck in therapy, when they could be in detention, serving their punishment?’ And to that I would say, ‘What a splendid question, I think that I will in fact be placing them in detention.’ Detention. For the four of you. Trophy room at seven,” she said, turning down the hallway, her dark green robes following with a swish. 

“Oh, and boys?” she called out over her shoulder, “please do fetch Mrs. Norris from the Whomping Willow. Mr. Filch awaits her, as well as a genuine apology from you four. And be careful,” there was almost a ghost of a smile of McGonagall’s face, “I hear she bites in close proximity.”

A collective groan filled the hallway. 

 

XXX

 

A man with devious, glittering eyes and an absurdly handsome face, made of jagged edges, leaned against a tree. He waited impatiently, but did not show it. Around him, the forest was locked in complete darkness, as if the tall, sharp trees had never known light. 

He heard cautious footsteps, the sign that his appointment had finally shown up.  _ About time _ . He did not give them the pleasure of turning around to face them. Instead, he said a greeting of, “We live in exciting times.” 

“Yes,” his companion noted with surprise, “I suppose we do.” 

“Have you heard the rumors?”

“There-there are lots of rumors,” the companion said with a shaky voice, “which one are you talking about?”

“The rumors of cheating Time. All of it happening within the Ministry.”

“Oh, those,” the companion said, “but that has nothing to do with me, then. You know that I’ve got no way into the Ministry. Not now, not for a while even.”

“Do you think I’m a fool?” he snapped. 

“N-no! Of course not,” the companion stammered, “I just don’t know what you want me to do. I can’t help you here.”

“On the contrary...” he said, a sinister smile creeping up his lips, “I think you can.”

* * *

 

In the undercurrents of this interaction, something much larger trembled. In the undercurrents of this interaction and many others, sat a council. Men and women, who were not human at all, sat in their gilded thrones. Their eyes, their faces had been resting undisturbed for some time. Eyes closed in a sleep-like state, hands clutching their crowns, their fading kingdoms. 

Their council room felt tenuous, flimsy. They were on a brink - of what, none could pinpoint exactly. In a moment, the room shuddered and shook, until the council’s eyes opened, for the first time in some time. 

They woke with a thunder, with a shudder that vibrated through the forests, the cities, the stone walls of safe havens. The entire world stopped for a second, and the roar that shook over the Wizarding World was the roar of what? Deliverance? Extirpation? Something they could not name? 

“Ah,” the head of the council breathed out with his waking voice. He smiled a mischievous smile and cracked his sleepy knuckles, “something new is in the air.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for all the M names in the Mckinnon household. On second thought, I'm not really sorry. I absolutely adore the Mckinnons, and though their names may be confusing now, they're all fully-fledged out characters (and you'll see that too.) Enjoy the happiness while it lasts. Shit's about to go down.


	3. The Great, Last Gasping

**Chapter Two: The Great, Last Gasping**

The red spark of a hex grazed his cheek, leaving a line of blood in its wake. Sirius stumbled back, reached his hand up and returned with crimson dripping off his fingers. He spat and turned back to his opponent. There was a sinister glare in his eye as he began to circle the floor. He intended to draw blood too. 

Arvirargus Burke circled with him. The only sound to fill the air was their footsteps echoing on the worn marble. They were playing cat and mouse, and neither role had been established yet. The edge of Sirius’ mouth twitched. 

Suddenly, Sirius hurled a  _ Bombarda maxima _ and then jet after jet of offensive curses. He was  _ mad _ , and his spells were as red as the blood that dripped on his robes. Burke weaved in and out, maintaining a stoic face even when one clipped his shoulder. 

In response, he threw  _ Petrificus totalus _ , and Sirius, with his limber elegance, barely dodged it. Sirius narrowed his eyes. 

And suddenly, it was arc after arc of colors, each one more menacing then the next. They collided with Burke’s shield, which was  _ just _ beginning to fracture - but not yet. When his shield shattered, Burke flung a  _ Stupefy _ and another  _ Petrificus totalus _ . 

Sirius blocked them, sent them spinning back. Light sizzled between them - shields broken - bones colliding with marble floors - a stray  _ Aguamenti _ sent a tidal wave barreling through the room - Sirius threw up a shield and his feet went skidding back as he held the rush of water hurtling towards him. The wave dropped and scattered over the floor. 

_ Alright then, two can play with elements _ . 

An  _ Incendio _ forced Burke back. Another  _ Aguamenti _ brought him forward. And then it was fire and water and singed wood - smoke filled the air - curses slashed through it - red and green and silver and blue. Desperation dripped down Sirius’s face. He, exhausted, threw a last resort spell. Blocked. He sent it again. Blocked. And again. Dodged. And agai-

He was as surprised as anyone else when it hit Burke. When the last of the smoke cleared, he gazed upon a silver candelabra across from him. 

Well, Dearborn never ruled out human Transfiguration. 

Silence filled the lecture hall. Only Peter was daring enough to let out a slow wolf whistle. James quickly followed with a whoop and a, “Nice one, Black!” Remus slowly applauded the performance. 

Professor Dearborn entered the dueling ground and commented, “Nice job, Mr. Black. Good foot work, though a slight dependency on offensive spells. Luckily, your partner seems to be more defensively inclined, as you just saw in our exercise. Your last move,” a small grin tickled his mouth, “unconventional, but effective. I do suppose a candelabra cannot hex you back--”

The candles of the candelabra lit up violently. 

“--Though apparently they can display anger. Now, if you please, let’s transfigure him back.”

“Right, Professor, there’s one slight problem with your request.”

“And what is that?”

“I have no bloody clue how to turn him back. We haven’t learned human transfiguration, I just threw out a spell that sounded alright.” 

Dearborn’s brows rose, “Well then, would someone like to escort Mr. Burke to the hospital wing? And be careful. Scratching the silver would be a tragedy.” 

 

XXX

 

Avior Mckinnon tumbled into the Ministry lobby in a cloud of green smoke. He let out a cough, and then proceeded to dust off excess ash from his robe. He had made it five steps out of the fireplace when he was grabbed roughly by the arm and turned around.

“Alastor,” Avior noted dully. 

This was not an infrequent occurrence.

“You look like shit,” Alastor Moody replied, scanning the man. Avior’s auburn beard carried more traces of grey than it ever had. His normally polished robes were speckled with floo powder and stained with signs of frequent late night potion-making. Most noticeable were the wrinkles that he had gained in only the past year. They stretched and redrew his face so that he looked perpetually worried. 

“Yes,” Avior agreed half-heartedly, “seems to be a common thing these days. Where are we going?”

“Where else?” Alastor grumbled. 

They made their way through the lobby, their steps sending multiple echoes that bounced off the black stone walls, until it sounded as if a regiment was walking through, not just a weary potioneer and a stocky auror. 

Alastor pushed Avior into a seemingly abandoned fireplace, far away from everyone else and their wandering eyes. He gave a nod, and Avior returned it. This was not a traditional floo fireplace. There was no green dust that sat in a bowl alongside the stone. No, this fireplace had been constructed for a very different purpose. 

Avior stood inside. A soothing voice echoed within the stone, “Name, please?” 

“Avior Mckinnon.”

A pause, then, “You have been authorized to use this transportation. Thank you.”

The stone ground of the fireplace opened up, hurtling Avior into complete darkness. Alastor Moody almost smiled when his ears were greeted with complete silence. He remembered Avior’s first journey and the screams that accompanied it. Much had changed in the year since. 

 

XXX

 

Early evening in the Hogwarts library was breathtaking. The flickering sunlight swam in through the windows; the smell of parchment and the scribble of quills rang in the air. Magical lights floated around students with stacks of books in front of them. Shelves of ancient tomes ran higher than the eye could see. 

Yes, early evening in Hogwarts was breathtaking. For a first year. 

Unfortunately, Marlene knew better. The Hogwarts library had been the setting of many outrageous - sometimes even carnal - tales, and most of them were not associated with reading or revising. (They usually always involved two things: liquor and the consequences of liquor.)

Fortunately for her record, Marlene was actually there for reading and revising. But, twilight hour in the library was often a bustling place, and she scrambled to find a seat. Eventually, she spotted a table for four, where Sirius and Peter were sitting. She hurried over, and set down her bag sternly. It landed with a loud  _ thump _ , and more than a few eyes turned. 

Peter, who had been balancing on the back legs of his chair, toppled over in surprise. He evaluated the bag cautiously,“Good Merlin, Marlene, what do you have in there? Bricks?” 

Marlene looked up at him, “Just the one. Lily needed it for Ancient Runes, but she couldn’t get back to the dorm in time, because the old painting in the Charms hallway - well, it’s a long story.” 

Sirius raised a brow, unamused. 

“It’s a good thing you’re here actually,” Peter said with a grin, “I wanted to ask you about Dorcas.” 

“Oh!” Marlene smiled at him, “I noticed you were partnered with her. She’s killer at dueling. You’re going to ace the course.” 

“Right, but do you know how I should approach her? She gives off a very particular vibe...what’s the word, Sirius?”

“Ready-to-shit-your-pants-and-run-away-screaming terrifying,” he said, his feet crossed on the table, his eyes never leaving his book. 

“She’s not that bad,” Marlene defended weakly.

“She made Gilderoy Lockhart shit his pants and run away screaming,” Sirius countered, a ghost of a smile on his face. 

“I bet  _ Gilderoy Lockhart _ deserved it,” Marlene said pointedly. 

“Probably, but nonetheless, point still stands. Your mate is scary.” 

“Everyone has their fair share of scary friends.”

“Oh, yes, James Potter is very horrifying. His hair is nightmare worthy,” Sirius deadpanned. 

“Let’s not forget Remus Lupin, who one time snuck out in the middle of the night and risked detention all for a hot chocolate,” Peter supplied. 

“Looks like it’s just you and Evans with the scary mates,” Sirius said off-handedly. 

“Don’t compare Dorcas to Snape,” Marlene snapped once she understood the intention behind his remark. 

Sirius smirked, “Touched a nerve there, have we?” 

Marlene bristled, “I can’t account for the rest of them, but Dorcas is  _ nothing _ like Snape.”

Sirius put up his hands in mock surrender, an almost smug look to him, and returned to his book, tucking his wand behind his ear. Marlene held onto her anger, even as she turned to her potions book and began making notes on her parchment. 

The two of them sat there for a while, and Peter poked his head up from his Charms book every once in awhile to evaluate them. Marlene’s anger was visibly simmering, and Sirius seemed to pay no heed. Her knuckles were white as bleach, and her scrawl ripped into the parchment more than a few times. He secretly wondered if she would punch Sirius. He decided he’d stick around to find out. 

An hour passed. The three of them sat while the lights grew brighter, and outside, the dark shadow of night slowly passed over. Marlene ripped into her parchment again, and the quill feather she held was mottled from her tight grip. Then Greta Catchlove approached their table. 

Greta Catchlove was Perfectly Put Together from her blonde curls, tucked back by a headband, and her pressed sweater to her regulation length skirt. Her robes proudly bore a blue and bronze prefect pin. A year older than the three at the table, she had become well-known in the school: Greta Catchlove would heal any scraped knee, bake cakes for her friends in the kitchens, and did not have a single mean bone in her body. She greeted the three, but she smiled at Marlene sweetly and inquired after her summer. 

“Decent enough,” Marlene grinned weakly, “Marc got us seats in his box for all the Puddlemere games. And Maverick filled out the England-Romanian traveling paperwork, so he could surprise me with a day trip to the Romanian Dragon Sanctuary. Some family quidditch matches and visits to Diagon, but other than that, nothing really happened.” 

Peter noticed that there was something rehearsed about the way she spoke, as if she had practiced her answer for this very question in a mirror. 

“I was wondering…” Greta bit her lip and hesitated, “if you knew where Manning was? I didn’t see him at the table this morning or on the Express last night. Not even in the tower. Is he coming later in the year?” 

At that, Marlene’s shoulders sagged. Any anger she might have still childishly held in her fists disappeared and was replaced by weariness. 

“Manning’s not coming back,” she whispered at last, and even Sirius looked up from his book, though his face remained flat, “he-um-got an offer. From the Mahoutokoro School of Magic to study Charms. They saw his O.W.L. scores, and they were some of the best they’d seen, so they offered him this opportunity, and he took it.” 

“Oh,” Greta said, “I thought he’d tell me if something like that happened to him. We were writing letters,” a faint blush covered her cheeks, “but I guess it would take an awfully long time for a letter to get from Japan to Scotland.” 

“Yeah, I guess it would. I’ll-um-let him know you asked after him. The next time I write,” she turned back to her book.

“D’you mind giving me his address then?” Greta asked shyly. 

Marlene froze, her wide brown eyes becoming even wider, before nodding slowly, “Yeah. Sure. I don’t have it on me, but I’ll hand it to you later.” 

Greta beamed, “That’d be wonderful! Thank you, Marlene.” And off she went with her black Mary Janes and white lace socks. 

When she was out of earshot, Sirius raised a brow, “What happened to your brother, Mckinnon?” 

She shot him a wary glance, “I just told you, didn’t I? He’s at Mahoutokoro studying Charms.” 

“Alright, if that’s what you’re telling everyone.” 

Marlene stiffened at the words, but she took a deep breath and continued writing. Sirius looked back at his book and crossed his other ankle. There was almost an understanding between them. 

 

XXX

 

Avior Mckinnon stood at the end of the long, white hallway, and something heavy fell over his shoulders and settled in the pit of his heart. He remembered distantly when it was small, a couple of rooms at the most. Now, he could not see the end. 

“There’ve been more?” he asked softly, afraid of the answer that he knew would follow. 

“Unfortunately,” Healer Bonham replied, and her voice dropped, “they’re getting younger too. Minister doesn’t think we can hide it anymore.”

“When did the Minister come by?” Alastor asked gruffly, standing behind Avior’s tall frame. 

“He didn’t,” the Healer answered, “but we got his patronus. Some of the memory charms on the parents are slipping. It’s been too long now, almost a year.” 

“What are we going to do about them?” Avior asked, poking his head into the rooms as they walked through the hallway. 

“The parents, you mean?” Bonham inquired. 

“Yes, the parents. I don’t want them to be worried. They’re going through a very terrible thing,” Avior said. 

“We should just cast the memory charm again,” Alastor suggested, “that’ll buy us a bit o’ time.”

“It won’t be enough,” Avior sighed, “I’m sure the Prophet will get wind of it now. We’ve hidden it for a year now, and that’s been impressive enough.” 

“The Public will go into a frenzy. The Minister can’t handle that right now. Politics has been very messy these days,” Bonham said.

“Yes, yes, I, too, read the Prophet and know what’s going on in the Ministry. The Minister can handle it,” Alastor snapped. 

“I’m afraid that inevitably everyone will know about this hallway, sooner or later,” Avior said almost calmly. 

“Let’s hope for later, then,” Bonham murmured. 

“This is not a hallway for hope.”  

The other two made assenting noises. They knew all too well the Death that lingered and crawled along the pure white walls. 

 

XXX

 

Marlene Mckinnon sat curled up in her bed with the drawings open. Her ruddy gold hair was piled on top of her head, and she twirled her wand between her fingers while she read the dusty tome in front of her. Two jars of bluebell flames hovered in the air near her, providing her with necessary reading light. 

She heard the door open and slam, causing her bed to shudder. Without looking up, she asked, “Do you want to talk about it?” 

An angry huff. 

“You have a burnt hole in your jumper, d’you know that?” Mary asked, and though her voice still trembled with steel, her intent was kind. 

“Ah, yes, that’d be Vaslav’s doing. He’s done this to two of my other favorite jumpers and singed the tassels on Lily’s bed hangings while he was at it.”

“Do you know where he is?” Mary said, and her voice was soft. 

“Sleeping on the radiator,” Marlene answered back absentmindedly. 

Mary walked over and scooped up Vaslav, a miniature Antipodean Opaleye dragon. Maverick had given him to her in the middle of the summer. He was a bit of a demon and always intent on burning up essays, but never cigarettes. He fit in the palm of her hand, and she had named him Vaslav after one of her favorite male muggle ballet dancers. Though having him broke more than twenty school rules, he made Mary feel safe, especially after last year, so Marlene and Lily handled the burnt essays and jumpers, and Mary coddled him like a rabbit. 

Marlene suspected that Dumbledore knew of Vaslav’s existence, but he never said anything when he passed by the girls in hallways. Only whistled and smiled from beneath his half moon spectacles. 

Mary flopped on her bed, setting Vaslav on her stomach while he snored smoke. 

“I hate him,” she finally said to the ceiling. It was a bitter sentence to match a bitter girl. 

“I know,” Marlene answered, “ask Dearborn for a different partner. Tell him what happened last year. He’ll understand.” 

Mary sat up to look at Marlene, “I don’t want to be weak. Asking Dearborn would be weak.” 

“You aren’t weak.” 

“I feel weak, standing in front of  _ him _ . I feel my skin crawl, and I just want to scrub everything away until I’m bleached bone. I hate him.” 

Marlene held her eyes with Mary’s, “Talk to Dearborn.” 

Mary pursed her lips and then glanced away, stroking a finger down Vaslav’s spine. A few moments passed. Marlene flipped a page. 

“We’ll see.” 

Marlene nodded at her friend, and Mary reached to her night stand to tune the Wizarding Wireless. She went past channels of Quidditch games, Ministry news reports, and Celestina Warbeck’s warbling voice. 

“He’ll get what’s coming to him,” Marlene said at last, interrupting the silence between the two. 

Mary paused, her whole body stopped, and she shuddered as she let out a breath, “He will. If I have to kill myself.” 

Mary settled on hearing an announcer recount a Quidditch game, and she lay back down on her bed. The fingers on her wand hand twitched. They were itching for blood. They had been waiting for the murder to flow into her veins. For the sadness and vulnerability and all the messy emotions to drain out of her bloodstream and be replaced by raw, unbridled vengeance. And now, here it was, slowly circulating through. 

The dorm grew still, and the two girls in their beds let the sound of Quidditch drown out the silence. 

 

XXX

 

On the fourth floor of Hogwarts, there hung a large, ornate mirror. It was old and warped, and the glass was scratched irreparably. Still, Sirius Black considered it a favorite of his. Mostly because the mirror, when prompted by a spell, swung open to reveal a passageway to the basement of the Hogsmeade post office. 

The passageway was as large as any classroom, and the Marauders had settled there. The boys had conjured up a ratty, but comfortable couch: an orange suede material topped off with a thick blanket. Floating candles settled in the air, and the stone space was littered with cigarette butts, papers, empty tea cups, Honeydukes wrappers, and restricted books, mostly on animagi and map making.  

The four of them were there now, lounging around. James and Peter were diligently doing their homework. Peter was poring over a Charms essay, while James researched dueling for Defense. Remus, however, was absentmindedly studying the Marauder’s Map, while Sirius lounged on the couch and puffed at a cigarette. 

Muggle cigarettes and Wizarding cigarettes were both addictive, but Wizarding cigarettes packed a punch of magic behind them as well. Some of them carried charms so that the smoke smelled like the roaring sea or a grassy Scottish meadow. The more expensive ones were infused with  _ felix felicis _ . 

Sirius, however, currently had a plain old Muggle cigarette, and as he smoked, he wondered what exactly had happened to Marlene’s brother. Manning Mckinnon, though he was a year older than Marlene, was frequently mistaken as her twin. He was everything that she was not: a Ravenclaw prefect with a wide, easy smile and kind, light eyes. He had a particular affinity for Charms that could give Peter a run for his money, and Sirius could not shake the idea that he was not where everyone said he was. 

“Prongs,” Sirius said, “d’you know where Marlene’s brother is?”

Peter looked up curiously from his work, shaken out of his reverie. He shot Sirius a wondering glance. 

“Which one?” James responded, distracted, still jotting down good defensive spells. 

“Manning. He’s supposed to be in his seventh year, no?” 

“Marls says he’s in Japan, studying Charm theory or something. Why’d you ask?” 

“Greta Catchlove asked after him, and Marlene didn’t seem too happy about it.”

“Marls and Manning are really close. I don’t think she’d be jumping for joy that he’s halfway across the world. Plus, I reckon having all her brothers away from home isn’t exactly a cakewalk.”

He pondered on that for a while and took a drag. 

“No,” he said at last, “I suppose it wouldn’t be.” 

(And for a moment, he was not thinking of Marlene’s brother, but another brother. One who was dark haired, sickly pale, and dressed in green.)

“What’s with the sudden curiosity in the Mckinnons?” Remus asked, a glib smile on his face. 

“I just wasn’t sure her brother went to Japan, is all,” Sirius said dismissively. 

“You heard her say it yourself,” Peter added. 

“She just seemed very...downtrodden.”

James raised a brow and looked up from his work, “And you suddenly care about Marlene now?” 

“What? I thought we liked Marlene?”

“We do,” James agreed, “she’s my mate, but you’ve never cared for her that much.” 

“We’re friendly.” 

Peter half scoffed half laughed, and Sirius gave him an inquisitive glance. “What?” 

Peter bit his lip, then answered,“For a few years, I was certain that you hated her.”

“I did too,” Remus agreed. 

“What are you two on about? I get along with her better than Macdonald or Evans. We joke sometimes. We play Quidditch just fine, don’t we?” 

“Yeah, but you can be a little cold to her, mate,” Remus nudged gently. 

Sirius frowned and took a long drag from his cigarette. Finally, “Well. I figure she’s alright.” 

“She is,” James said at last. 

And that was that. The boys resumed their tasks, and Remus conjured up a kettle of tea, still hot. They entered a well-practiced silence between the four. And they carried on like that for a while. 

“Prongs,” Peter started, “you holding quidditch trials next week?” 

James grinned, “Sure. Only if you promise you’re going to announce this year. You were hilarious when you subbed in for Toots that last match.” 

“No promises,” Peter responded, “but I talked to McGonagall about it, and she said as long as I didn’t swear more than five times about the Slytherins, I’d be in.” 

“That can’t be too hard,” Remus said, pouring the four of them cups of tea. 

“It is,” the other three chimed. They looked at each other simultaneously, and all burst out laughing. Their laughter carried throughout the passageway, their own secret place. 

Remus handed them their cups of tea. It was a bit of an unusual sight: four of the most notorious boys in the school, hiding out in a secret passageway, sipping from delicate, pink tea cups that Mrs. Potter had sent with James in his trunk a few years back.  

“Cheers,” Remus said, holding up his cup to clink. 

“To what?” Peter asked, but held up his cup dutifully. 

“To the wonderful prank I’ve been planning out while you two did your schoolwork.” 

“I’ll cheers to that,” James said with a grin, and Sirius, too, held up his cup with a pensieve, amused look about him. 

They sipped their tea, and Peter pointed out that they had already had one detention in the school year, and two in the first week just seemed to be pushing it. 

“You’d only get detention if you got caught,” Remus noted. 

“And will we get caught?” 

“Well, it’s a fifty-fifty chance. Most likely.” 

“Brilliant,” James said. 

And they clinked their cups again. 

 

XXX

 

While the boys were in their passageway, someone else was in their dormitory. It was a surprisingly organized chaos. Robes were hung up on conjured hooks, trunks lay open at the foot of beds, revealing folded jumpers and trousers, and even the ashtray on the window sill had been cleaned out. Quidditch posters, Muggle girls on bikes, and photos of the four gathered on the walls, but the beds were made. 

The two intruders, a boy and a girl, quickly examined and scanned the room. The boy accidentally knocked over a cauldron, and the  _ clang _ that followed caused their hearts to beat erratically. When no one came in, they put the cauldron back and continued with their task. 

“What are we looking for?” the boy asked, a mere whisper. 

“Anything related to  _ his _ father,” the girl answered, and nodded to James Potter’s trunk. Their hands dug through the clothing, the Quidditch kit, the textbooks, until they stumbled across a bundle of letters. The first letter on the stack was from Fleamont Potter. 

The boy raised his brows, “Could it be that easy?” 

The girl, in return, shot him an exasperated look, “It’s never that easy.” 

 

XXX

 

The first wisps of dawn streamed in through the vast windows of the Great Hall. Only a few students sat at their respective house tables, and they were scattered throughout the large room. At the Gryffindor table, there were only three. 

Marlene Mckinnon had folded her robe neatly on the bench beside her. She shook out the latest copy of the  _ Prophet _ and stroked the feathers of her Great Horned Owl, who was pecking at a sausage. She shooed him back to the Owlery and began to stir her morning cup of Earl Grey. 

Sirius Black sat down across from her. And then there were four. She set down the  _ Prophet _ to glance at him. 

“Morning,” she said, unsure. 

“Morning,” he replied, and his voice dripped with drowsiness. 

“You’re up rather early,” she commented and brought the  _ Prophet _ back up to read. 

“Never slept,” he said. 

She raised a brow, “Can I expect a brilliant Marauders prank during the day?”

“Possibly,” he grinned, “what’re you doing up so early?” 

“Vaslav woke me up.”

“Mary’s cat, right?” 

She almost chuckled, but pursed her lips, “Something like that.” 

She sipped at her tea, and Sirius poured himself a cup of Earl Grey. 

“Any good news?” Sirius asked, nodding his head to the paper. 

“Good? No,” she said, flipping a page, “interesting? Perhaps.” 

“Any interesting pieces you care to share?” 

Her brow furrowed from behind the paper, and she set the  _ Prophet _ down on the table, “D’you want something, Sirius? Did James send you to look after me?”

He looked surprised, “Nothing like that, I thought we were mates, Mckinnon.”

“Mates don’t use surnames,” she said precisely and pointedly. 

“Alright, I’m sorry,  _ Marlene _ , but have I done something to offend you?” 

“You’ve never cared to get to know me. A bit weird to start now, don't you think?” 

“Peter said that he thinks I’m cold to you.”

“You can be,” she said slowly. 

“And if I am, I don't mean to be. You’re probably one of the coolest girls in the year.”

She rolled her eyes, “Don’t be a tit, Sirius.”

“Honest!” 

A small smile played at the edge of her lips, and she took another sip of her tea. 

“Minchum’s put more Dementors in Azkaban,” she said at last. 

Sirius appeared confused. 

“You asked for interesting pieces, didn’t you?” Marlene said, and when he understood, he grinned. 

“Wouldn’t fancy a stretch in Azkaban now then,” Sirius said, and he leaned back. 

“Has anyone ever fancied a stretch in Azkaban?” Marlene asked, raising her brows. 

He barked out a laugh, “Fair point.” 

She gifted him with a weak smile, and he grinned back easily, a winking twinkle in his eye. She wondered if this was how James learned to love Sirius: With brilliant mischief and good-intentions draped around him, illuminating him. 

But she had been in too many Quidditch practices with him to know the unintentional cruelty that cloaked him as well. He would slam a bludger into anyone’s ribs without a second glance if it meant a win for his own team. Though he was often catlike in his limber elegance (when he walked down the hallways, adjusting a bag on his shoulder, when he crossed his ankles and read in the common room), she had seen a predator quality in his eyes, reminiscent of a rabid dog. Gryffindor’s crimson robes suited him well. He seemed built to wear blood.   

In these moments of darkness, she remembered her brother, Maddox, when he was young. Not in his days of childish curiosity, but the dark days after he started speaking to the paintings and before she began. She remembered the particular cruelty he carried with him and its similarity in Sirius. 

“You all right?” Sirius asked, his left hand reaching gently to touch her arm. Right before he did, he caught the all-too-familiar glimpse in Marlene’s eye, seemed to think better of it, and drew back. He grew stiff and polite.  

She looked curiously at him, “Brilliant, just tired is all.” 

His weak smile was an echo of hers just a few moments ago, “More tea, then? How’d you like it?”

She paused, scanning him. The moment of kinship had seemingly passed. What was left was a skeleton of formality. He must’ve recognized the way she looked at him. The grimace that flittered through her eyes as she remembered the saying she heard so often:  _ Watch out for those Blacks, Gaolach. You might’ve been told that we’re horrible, but they’re made entirely of black maggots and demons. You never trust a Black. Not with your money, not with your friendship, and definitely not with your life.  _

She knew she should give him the benefit of the doubt. She knew that something about Sirius was different, but the words rang through her ears nonetheless. He must’ve known. He must’ve been used to it even. 

Her next words were polite as well, “A splash of milk and a spoon of honey.” 

And they carried on in civility. 

 

XXX

 

In the blackness of the Forbidden Forest, a solemn pair of students tread. The girl held a lantern in front of her, which did a dismal job of lighting the way for the two. Only a few paces behind, the boy shuffled with his arms crossed and a near pout on his face. 

“There’s no use in even trying,” the boy grumbled, “if the seventh years couldn’t do it then-”

“-Then what?” the girl snapped, “don’t think you’re smart enough to outwit blubbering Mulciber?” she challenged with a quirked brow. 

“I didn’t say that,” the boy countered, and if possible, his pout increased. 

“Lighten up,” the girl said with a glance of a smile, “I’m brilliant, remember?” 

The edges of his lips tucked up, but immediately disappeared when they heard a twig snap. The singular sound echoed in waves around them. It was not just a twig in their minds, not in this forest. It couldn’t be a twig; it had to be bones, delicate wrist bones, leg bones, the curve of a spine. 

Their breaths hitched in their throats, and their sweaty, clumsy hands instinctively reached for their wands. Back to back, the notches of their spines fitting in with the other’s. Like magic. The boy closed his eyes and leaned his head back and listened. 

“Do you hear that?” he whispered, and his words were met with a shake of a head. 

“I don’t hear anything,” she said. 

“Exactly.” 

Her eyes widened until they were as big as the Hogwarts plates. This forest, teeming with life, was Silent. They were being watched; there could be no other explanation. The girl’s lantern went out with a gust of wind - but was it wind? Plunged in complete darkness, the girl frantically reached for the boy’s hand and gripped it, squeezing the fingers until they were numb. She closed her eyes and let out a breath, slowly but surely. For a moment, she was almost prepared to die-

Laughter. Cackling laughter surrounded them on all sides, and then a circle of light surrounded her and her companion. She squinted up at the light source and discovered an entire circle of students, sitting high up in the trees, primly dressed, all bearing their lighted wands down on the two. 

“Look at these scared sixth years. About to piss their pants,” one of the boys, a leader, said, hopping down from a very tall branch with a practiced grace. He landed on his two feet and swaggered over to the pair. His hand stroked the girl’s cheek and then patted it like he would a little child. The signet ring on his hand left a red mark on her left cheekbone. 

“They think they can do better than we can,” he bellowed to the other in the circle. Sneers and laughter. “And Mulciber,” he said, addressing the large, lumbering figure sitting atop a tree, “how does it feel to be called ‘blubbering’?” 

The large figure dropped from his branch, and the thud that followed sent quivers up the girl’s bones. 

“Not particularly nice,” he said, and when he stepped in the light, he bore a sadist’s grin. Mulciber loomed over the girl, but she stood unwaveringly, even as he smirked down at her. 

Another lithe figure dropped down from the branches. When she entered the lighted clearing, the others quieted. Her dark hair was pulled back from an elegant face in a tight bun. She wore refined robes with a high, dark neckline, and her signet ring, larger than any of the boys’, glinted under the waning moonlight. She was  _ the _ leader, and everyone knew it. 

“Now, boys,” she said with a slow, ruby smile, “you didn’t even give them a chance to prove themselves. I’d hardly call that fair.” 

“They were scared shitless,” the boy defended, “they wouldn’t have gotten farther.” 

“They might have. We’ll never know now, will we?”

The others in the circle were rendered speechless. There was almost a look of shame to their cruel faces. 

The leader approached the pair, still trembling in the center. She smiled with an attempted kindness, but in the warped light and shadows, her face appeared monstrous in its beauty and falsities. 

“A valiant effort, the pair of you,” she said, though there was a laugh in her voice, “perhaps a better try next time.” 

“Next time?” the girl asked. 

The leader raised a brow and gave her an apprehensive look, “But of course. We’ll stop at nothing short of death to accomplish this task, won’t we boys?” 

Raucous cheers met her words. 

“Perhaps we won’t even stop short of death,” she said with a twisted smile. 

The girl found the boy’s hand again. The most terrifying things in the forest were right in front of them. Madness bubbled in the circle’s blood, and their leader was the most ruthless of all. 

“Come along, boys,” the leader said, and the shadows of figures dropped from the trees and began to follow the girl with the high necked robes. The pair began to do the same, but were stopped when the leader glanced at them with a wary look. 

“Did you think you were going back with us?” she asked. 

“Well, we can’t very well spend the night in the forest,” the boy scoffed. 

“I believe you can,” she responded with a small smile,“You still have a few hours to see to your task. I hope you do, and do it all in one piece. I’d hate to clean up after you.” 

She withdrew a port-key from the folds of her robes, and the circle disappeared. She almost laughed to see the gaping faces of the boy and the girl. 

The night swooped onto their shocked expressions. 

 

XXX

 

The St. Mungo’s Healer bustled along in the white, crisp hallways. She hummed a tune as she walked along, but her eyes darted around her, ensuring that no one followed her. She nervously smoothed down the folds of her bright green Healer robes and passed smiles to fellow Healers and nurses alike. 

At last, she entered a rather deserted hallway. With one last glance behind her, she pushed open the door to a room. Inside, two beds were nestled against a sterile wall. They were both made with navy blue blankets and hospital corners. A wind chime was hung up in a corner, and a light breeze caused it to sing out melodiously. 

The Healer closed the door gently behind her and went to the wind chime. She tapped out the tune she had been humming, and then lay on the left bed. She closed her eyes, and she heard the wind chime speak in its soothing voice. 

“Name, please?” 

“Lisa Bonham,” she said softly. 

“You have been authorized to use this transportation. Thank you.”

The bed caved in on itself, and she was transported into the very familiar hallway. 

She dusted off a piece of lint from her robes, and only when she looked up did she let out a stomach-churning scream. From behind, a delicate hand clamped over Lisa’s mouth, silencing her. The other snaked to wrap around Lisa’s neck. The hand began to squeeze. She flailed, trying desperately to reach for her wand, but it clattered out of her robes. Her eyes were beginning to flutter, and all she could see was the wall in front of her. The wall, the  _ terrifying  _ wall. 

Against the pure white canvas, written in sickly blood were the words: A _ bandon all hope those who come here _ . It dripped down, and the bloody ink carried a green sheen to it. It was splattered everywhere, puddles of this horrifying, unnatural liquid. At last, Lisa’s strength began to wane, though she clutched desperately at her throat, hoping that she might live through this. She heard the horrifying sound, and she knew that her throat had collapsed. 

The last thing she saw was a woman standing over her. Blood coated the bottom half of her face, turning what might have been a pretty face into something malicious and blood thirsty. 

“For my daughter,” she said resolutely, and as her crimson-covered footsteps walked out of the hallway, Lisa Bonham took one last, shuddering breath. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I did check, and there is a passageway to Hogsmeade behind a fourth floor mirror. Yes, I did just kill a character on the second chapter. Yes, I have outlined and planned chapter three, but it's really anyone's guess as to when I'll finish it.


	4. The Linchpin

**Chapter Three: The Linchpin**

“Do you think this is where it began?” the head of the council asked. He loomed over the room, his head brushing the domed ceiling. He easily surpassed twelve meters, and his features were skeletal. With one black boned arm, he leaned forward, holding his chin, to examine the man before him. The man, though young, already had grey hair littered throughout his scalp. 

The young man closed his eyes, “No. I used to, but now I believe it started much longer ago.”

“The Peverell Brothers’ time, perhaps?” the head suggested with a booming, sinister voice, as if he already knew the answer. 

“Perhaps,” the man said, on edge, “but I think the World has always been expecting it.” 

“Hmm,” the head hummed, “then what significance do you think the Bonham woman’s death had to do with it?” 

The man opened his eyes and looked into the head’s vacant ones, “Her death was the linchpin to what followed afterwards. There’s no denying that.” 

The head smiled, “Then you remember what happened afterwards.”

The man let out a quivering sigh, “Like it was yesterday.” 

 

XXX

 

The day carried on like any other day. In the Great Hall, the breakfast bustle was well under way, and the owls were due at any moment. Cheerful laughs and the sound of milk being spilled over wooden tables were abundant. It was a peculiarly nice day in Scotland, and the sun cast a warm glow on the Hall and the students within it. 

Dishes were passed, cups jostled, and last minute assignments were being scrawled on as the owls came bursting from the aerie. And suddenly, the Hall was no longer as cheerful. 

It started with the single black owl, which soared over the heads of the students, and at last landed at Dumbledore’s seat, bearing with it a rich black envelope. Silence got acquainted with the hall. The headmaster pursed his lips. One long, bony finger broke the seal, and the students held their breath as his eyes skimmed the parchment. When he set down the letter, there was something solemn about him. He stood up gently and walked over to a Ravenclaw fourth year girl. 

Her eyes widened to the size of saucers, and she quickly glanced around her to see if the headmaster was approaching one of her friends. No such luck. He gave her a serene smile, and soon, he ushered her out of the Great Hall away from prying eyes. 

As if on cue, the other owls rushed down simultaneously from the rafters, bearing with them  _ The Daily Prophet _ , other papers, and an assortment of letters. Suddenly, things made sense. 

_ The Prophet _ screamed in bold, black ink, “ _ Heir to Founder of St. Mungo’s, Lisa Bonham, Found Murdered in the Healing Halls _ .” 

_ Witch Weekly _ was not as sensitive; its headline read:  _ Death of Prominent Witch Saddens the Nation, Which Mourning Outfit Will You Choose? Options on Page 5. _

And  _ The Quibbler _ , quirky and avant-garde as always, said, “ _ Special Edition: A Conspiracy Afoot? Was Lisa Bonham’s Death Part of an Elaborate Ministry Scheme? _ ”

Marlene gingerly set down her copy of  _ The Prophet _ , her fingers shaking as a numbness swept over them. 

“That’s horrible,” Mary whispered, and Lily echoed the sentiment with a nod. They did not know what to do in the face of a tragedy; tragedy had never walked into their lives before, only took off its shoes and stood at the welcome mat. 

The light mood of the Hall seemed to darken, and though the sunlight still shone on the wooden tables and silver plates, it seemed to cast everything in a blinding reality that stayed, even as the first students peeled away and headed early to their classes. The Hall grew more and more empty, and Marlene found herself sitting with Lily, Mary, and a few other stragglers. They seemed to be waiting for her, and they shared worried looks. 

“You coming to History?” Lily finally ventured. 

“No, you go on without me,” Marlene said at last, standing up from the bench. She brushed off the crumbs of her biscotti from her lap. 

Lily’s brow furrowed, “You can’t just skip class, a prefect could duck points for that.”

Marlene raised a challenging brow, “Are you going to?” 

Lily finally sighed, “No, I won’t. Just this one class, right?” 

“Right,” Marlene confirmed, “Binns won’t miss me anyway. Too delighted by the sound of his own dull voice,” she gave the two a weak smile. 

Mary returned it and gave her a concerned one in return. She stiffly patted Marlene’s shoulder and followed Lily up the grand staircase. Marlene watched them disappear. 

After a few minutes had passed and she was certain that they were in class, she began to dash up the stairs. She jumped right before her staircase moved, and then she was off again. A few paintings shook their head at her, going on length about the cons of tardiness. But at last, she reached the fourth floor. Slightly out of breath, she walked directly to the tarnished mirror that hung lopsided on the stone wall. 

She knocked on it furiously, “James! Open up, please!” 

No response. She knocked again, “James, I wouldn’t come here if it wasn’t important.” 

Finally, the mirror slowly creaked open to reveal a hazel, bespeckled eye and disheveled hair. He cleared his throat before saying, “First of all, shouldn’t you be in History right now?”

“Shouldn’t you?” she said pointedly. 

He chuckled grimly despite himself, “Fair point. Secondly, how’d you know I’d be here?” 

She sighed, “Followed you one night after Quidditch. You were acting suspicious. Imagine my surprise to find that you snagged yourself your own secret passageway.” 

He seemed to consider this for a moment before nodding, “You alright?” 

She gave him a weak smile, “I could lie and say yes, but you’d know.” He reached out and grasped her hand, squeezing it as a comfort. She continued, “I just need one small favor.” 

“Anything,” he said earnestly. 

She let out a deep breath, “I know you have a way to know where people are,” his brows shot up, “I don’t know the exact inner workings of it, but you always seem to know how to find people, even in this hulking seven floor monstrosity, and I need to find someone.” 

“Alright…” 

“It’s Breen Bonham.” 

His face darkened, “I don’t think she wants to be found today.” 

“James, I  _ know _ her.” 

He seemed surprised at her statement, “You do? She’s a fourth year.” 

She was half-pleading now, “My dad knows her family. She might think she wants to be alone, but she could...she could use someone with her.” 

James swallowed, “Okay. Fine. Wait here.”

She watched as he let the passageway swing close, catching the briefest glimpse of his fingers in the doorway, before the mirror slid back into place. A little later, he opened the passageway again. 

“She’s on the fifth floor corridor behind the boar tapestry. It’s across the huge portrait of-”

“Got it,” she said, and James blinked, watching her flash of blonde hair disappear. 

“Thanks!” she called out, and he nodded, a furrow forming between his brows. 

“Welcome,” he said quietly to an empty hallway. His voice quivered in the still air. 

 

XXX

 

The boar tapestry was rather well-known for a tapestry. It had gained renown for always leaving its domain and was often seen charging into every piece of art imaginable. The woven piece was worn, and only the faintest sounds came from the boar that ran on its fabric fields. 

Behind it was an old room. Quite small, only slightly larger than a broom cupboard. Few knew about the room, but Breen Bonham seemed to have stumbled upon it.

The thin window inside the room, paneled with diamonds of wavering glass, brought in a semblance of light. Breen gathered her knees to her chest, and she felt altogether too small. 

Her mother had been a short and curvaceous woman: on the larger side of the spectrum, but with the best embrace. She styled her auburn hair in looping pin curls, and her perfume was warm. That was the best way to describe it, really; she gave off the sense of warmth and home. 

Breen took after her father, a skinny broom of a man with dark skin and a cloud of hair that only added to his lanky height. She was a mirror image of him with her mother’s short stature. The result was Breen, who, though she was fourteen, looked more like a second year.  Even Madame Malkin, who had taken her measurements since she was barely eight, had thought she was twelve, going on thirteen, when she had come into her summer robe fitting. 

Her chest felt tight, empty and overflowing at the same time. Nostalgia, Shock, and Disbelief were her companions, and they, too, settled into the small room, lounging on the one wooden bench. 

Breen was a Ravenclaw, and because of this, she was well-acquainted with logic and fact. Leave the fantastical to the bold, reckless Gryffindors and their heroic acts or the daydreamers of Hufflepuff; Breen understood the world through a series of researched and proved statements. 

Fact: Her mother was dead. 

Fact: Her mother was murdered. 

Fact: She would never see her mother again. 

This, perhaps, was the hardest concept to grasp. She had not always been kind to her mother. Truth be told, she found herself sometimes embarrassed of her: her mother was too loud, too demanding, too large of a presence, too different in appearance from her. The small things she had found fault in she now missed beyond measure and would give up her soul seven times over if it meant she could see her again. 

The world was funny like that. Only absence made something more valuable, more cherished, but by then, it would be too late. 

_ Gone, gone, gone _ . Four letters, but an idea that was too outrageous to understand. Her mother would never brush her hair away from her forehead and smile sadly when Breen pushed her away? Her mother would never hold her hand as they wound their way through Knockturn Alley, gathering medical herbs, and Breen would pretend that she was doing her mother a favor by intertwining their fingers instead of the other way around? Her mother would never come home late from St. Mungo’s on the summer hols and use her last bit of energy to make a breakfast for Breen, which she could warm up in the morning? Her mother would never come home? 

Breen now understood the quest for immortality that so many wizards and witches had sought. Immortalize your loved ones, immortalize yourself, and you would never not be loved, never be forgotten, never be lost, never have to  _ deal _ with loss. Immortality’s price seemed a kind thing compared to this gaping, clawing heaviness that weighed down her heart. 

_ What was the last thing she said to her mother? What was the last thing her mother thought? Could she bring her mother back? What boundary was there between Death and Life? And could she cross it? Surely, there had to be research in the library on necroma- _

The door creaked open slowly; the hinges, rusty as they were, groaned in protest. Breen looked up, stiff, on edge, her dark knuckles turned intensely lighter from her harsh grip around her knees. 

“Breen?” a voice called out gently. The unanswered question filled the small room. But that voice - she recognized it. It was rash and laughing and soft when need be. 

“Yes?” Breen decided to answer. She had tried to make her voice sound like she was alright, that she was strong. Instead, her “yes” turned out more like a raspy croak, clear evidence of crying. 

She knew it was Marlene even before she saw her. Marlene was everything Breen was not: reckless and courage-filled with an unordinarily pretty face, fox-like in its mischief. Her most striking feature, her large brown eyes that always seemed to carry a lilt to them, were creased in concern. She had brothers, a number of them, and she wore their school jumpers proudly on mufti days. She had  _ family _ , she would always have family. She had  _ her mother _ . Her mother was alive. 

And that was the most cavernous difference between the two. 

 

XXX

 

Marlene sat awkwardly next to Breen on the hard-backed wooden bench. She shouldn’t have come, she realized that now. In theory, she would’ve comforted Breen, smoothed her hair, offered a conjured handkerchief for the tears.  _ All the things she wished someone had done for her when Manning - _

She squeezed her eyes shut. Today was not her tragedy. 

But Breen was not crying. Instead, she sat stiffly, back ramrod straight, and stared blankly at the stone wall in front of her. Breen was lost in her own head; her mouth opened and closed, mouthing words that Marlene only caught snitches of. Her eyes were glassy, pensieve-like, and they rippled with something Marlene could not identify. 

_ Sadness? Yes, but it was something more than that. Loss? Fear? _ No.  _ It couldn’t be. _ But Marlene recognized that look that glinted behind the dark irises. She had seen it on her brother, on the malicious smiling students that wrung in and out of the Hogwarts halls.  _ Ambition. _

“Breen?” Marlene ventured again. This seemed to snap Breen out of her muddled reverie. She glanced at Marlene. Her dark eyes now seemed blank, sad, a night sky with no stars-

(No, that wasn’t right either) 

They gleaned from the faint morning light like  _ obsidian _ , hardened and calloused with a hint of cruelty. Breen held her gaze level with Marlene’s, before slumping her shoulders and cradling her head in her hands. 

Breen bit out a bitter laugh, and it sounded so unnatural that Marlene winced as it twirled in the air of the room, “And to think,” she spat, “that only yesterday I thought the biggest concern of my life was that someone had rummaged through my things.” She ran a shaking hand through her tight coils, and her small face faltered and turned stone still. 

“Breen…” Marlene said again, her voice a strain of comfort. It seemed to be the only thing she could say. 

“Why are you here?” Breen asked, and there was an accusation laced in. 

“I-” Marlene was surprised, “I thought you wouldn’t want to be alone.”

“Know a lot about my thoughts, huh?” Breen snapped, “you haven’t spoken more than a dozen words to me since I’ve come to Hogwarts.” 

Marlene faltered, “I know I’ve been absent. I’m sorry, Breen. You know I care about you. I’ve known you your whole life-”

Another dark chuckle, “Ah, yes. Marlene, the prodigal goddaughter with her famous father and talented brothers. You can’t imagine how proud my parents were when your dad got Order of Merlin for the polyjuice potion.  _ That’s your godfather, Breen _ , they said. When mum came home and told us that she’d be working with your dad on a project, I thought,  _ Maybe mum will get an Order of Merlin too _ . But what good did knowing your dad do for her? She still died, didn’t she?” 

“Your mum was working with my dad?” Marlene echoed. Breen shot her a glare. 

“Please leave,” Breen said primly, “I want to be alone, actually.” 

“Breen-”

“GET OUT!” she shouted suddenly, and a spark of wandless magic lit up the air like lightning. The door slammed open, and the sound of the wood hitting the stone reverberated throughout Hogwarts. The door splintered. Marlene could hear the cracks of the wooden panels as they sliced through the stillness. 

“GET OUT!” Breen yelled again - there were tears in her voice - pointing at the open door. In her anger, in her emotion, she had turned manic. Her hair exploded, her eyes widened in madness, Breen had become something else entirely.  _ Or maybe this had been her all along, and Marlene just hadn’t bothered to find out _ . 

Marlene glanced at the girl and stood up slowly to leave. Halfway out the door, Breen shouted again, “YOU DON’T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT LOSS!” 

Her words were measured, chosen precisely to hurt. Breen wanted to hurt Marlene, because Marlene hadn’t bothered until now, and Marlene was beautiful, but fragile, and  _ fragile things were so easy to hurt _ ,  _ their little bones going snap, snap, snap _ , and she wanted someone else to feel that same hurt that coursed through her veins. Breen wanted to hurt Marlene, because Marlene had a mother, and she didn’t. Marlene had brothers, five,  _ and _ a mother. Breen just had her mum and her dad, and now she didn’t even have that. 

Marlene froze, her feet just inches away from the threshold. She shut her eyes tightly again and swallowed. Inside her ribs, her chest beat something fractured and without rhythm. She opened her eyes and walked out the door. 

She couldn’t help but wince when she heard the door slam back into place. 

 

XXX

 

The secret group the Ministry had put together was in disarray. Chaos ran and spilled over their headquarters, a hidden hallway between St. Mungo’s and the Ministry. 

The proper people had been enlisted to clean up, and their confidentiality vows sat in a pile on Avior’s desk. He rubbed his face. Headquarters still lingered with the smell of their robes, a disinfectant spell that clung to every surface and wandered aimlessly. It was repugnant, but there were only a few spells that could get rid of the rust of blood. The walls had been stained white again, evidence gathered and sent to the proper Aurors, who would stay  _ hush, hush _ , and Avior could almost pretend that everything was okay. 

But he was too smart for that, and he knew better. Lisa was dead. How could that be? His consultant, his friend, his  _ first friend _ . There was a time when Mckinnon had been synonymous with cold-blooded, but Lisa had looked past that and befriended him anyways. Gone? Lisa Bonham, fierce and valiant, who refused to take on her husband’s name and insisted that her surname be given to her daughter, had not survived Death. That was an idea Avior could not understand. 

“Mckinnon?” Alastor said at last, standing uncomfortably on the other side of Avior’s desk. His lips twitched, “the Minister wants to see you.” 

Avior let out a sigh, “I figured it might come to this. I guess I should go.” 

He began to shrug on his outer robe, but another voice joined the fray. 

“No need, Avior.” 

Avior found himself looking into the battle-hardened eyes of Harold Minchum, the most powerful man in Wizarding Britain. 

“Please,” Harold said, gesturing back to Avior’s seat, “sit down. It appears that the press is catching up to us. We need to have a plan for when they do.” 

Avior slowly sank into his seat, “Yes. Yes, we do.” 

Mourning could wait until the dirty work was done. 

 

XXX

 

**Daily Prophet Headline:** _Department of Magical Law Enforcement Uncovers Motive Behind Bonham’s Grisly Death. (Cont. On Page 9.)_

 

**Quibbler Headline:** _ Parent of Healer Bonham’s Sick Patient Revealed to Be Her Murderer. Can You Spot the Gaps in this Ministry-Spun Story?  _

 

XXX

 

School fell into the humdrum routine that followed closely on the heels of mid September. Students filled the cracks and crevices that the student body made for them, and all was seemingly normal. The days were getting shorter, slowly but surely, and the oil lamps in the library burned longer. 

Marlene and Lily ran down the near-empty hallway to Defense. They did not exchange any words mid-run; their language was fear of tardiness, and their frantic footsteps were their vocabulary. Mary was usually the one who woke up first, always ready and clean even in the early hours of the day. But, Mary had been in bed for a few days now, and she had a vial of Pepperup Potion by her bedside at all times. So instead, Lily and Marlene tried to wake up early, but some things, even in the magical world, were very hard. 

At last, the wooden door came in sight, and they hurried in just as the second hand on Professor Dearborn’s watch marked the time for class to begin. 

“Ladies,” he greeted the two sternly, and they took his greeting with an embarrassed blush and a scurrying for their seats, “don’t get yourself too comfortable.” 

The pair froze mid-journey and glanced up at him, confused.

“Sir?” Lily ventured softly. 

“We’re going to be doing a rapid instinct dueling drill. Hopefully by now, you’ve all reached out to your assigned dueling partner,” many heads ducked in shame, “so you should be accustomed to their style of dueling. Today, you’ll pair up with someone you haven’t dueled and switch when I say at the three minute mark. Pair up now, please!” 

Dearborn effortlessly waved his wand, and the desks and chairs went scattering to the sides of the walls, leaving a large space suitable for dueling. Lily and Marlene shrugged and stood, facing each other. Around them, the Gryffindor boys banded together, and Slytherins found other emerald ties. 

“We really need to start waking up early,” Marlene commented, waving a casual stun.  Lily blocked it easily and groaned, “But sleep is such a lovely thing. Who are we to tarnish it?” 

“We’ve lost ten points in the past week since Mary got ill,” Marlene pointed out, throwing up a light shield to block Lily’s hex. 

“You think she’s alright? Should we levitate her to the Hospital Wing?” 

“Nah,” Marlene brushed her off, “Mary’s strong, but she’s always had the immune system of a bat. She’s well enough to give us her essays and schoolwork to turn in, so I reckon she’s not on the verge of death.” 

“Fair,” Lily nodded as she blocked a curse, then grinned, “bats have weak immune systems?” 

Marlene laughed and quickly silenced it when accusatory heads swung their way, “Don’t know, actually. It just sounded right.” 

Lily grinned as she hurled a particularly nasty hex that Marlene barely dodged. 

“Nice one,” Marlene commented, throwing up a shield, “you met up with James yet? For the simulation practice?” 

Lily groaned audibly and blocked Marlene’s disarming charm, “Not yet. We’ll figure it out when we get there, yeah?” 

“When you say ‘there’, you don’t actually mean the simulation, right?” 

Lily threw a stun, “Well, what’s wrong with that? He seems to be a decent dueler, and I’m a decent dueler. What’s the worse that could go wrong?” 

“Hmm..let me think,” Marlene blocked a hex, “you could fail the simulation, therefore failing the class and your N.E.W.T.s, and your entire future would fall apart like that. Zip, bam, boom.” 

Lily glared, “Well, have you met up with Bonnie yet?” 

Marlene’s nose wrinkled in defeat, “Alright, you’ve got a point there. No, I haven’t.”

Lily actually seemed surprised as she dodged a spell, “Really? She  _ lives _ with us, Marlene.” 

Marlene rolled her eyes, “Not really. She’s always hanging around her Ravenclaw and Slytherin friends. Probably has a bed in their dorms honestly. She’s always gone when we wake up.” 

“We wake up late,” Lily pointed out, “still, we don’t even know what kind of dueler she is. At least I know James can cast a decent hex, but if you’re stuck in the simulation with a dud of a dueler, you’re fucked.” 

“Gee,” Marlene sent a hex Lily’s way, “that’s a reassuring thought.” 

“Alright, look,” Lily said, taking a deep, relenting sigh, “I’ll schedule my meeting with Potter, if you do the same with Bonnie. Let’s actually manage to finish this year without failing anything.”

“Fine. But I really hope she’s not a dud of a dueler.” 

“And I really hoped I wouldn’t get partnered with a massive school bully who gets his kicks from torturing other students, but alas, alack.” 

Marlene faltered, “He’s a good person, Lils. I don’t think he ever means to hurt anyone, just wants to get a laugh out of a crowd.” 

Lily’s pretty, thin face screwed in confusion, freckles turning into abstract patterns amidst the wrinkling of her nose; her normally bright, amused green eyes shone with dislike. 

“Well, he has a terrible way of going about it.” 

“Your opinion is noted, but please,” Marlene held a shield, “don’t kill him.” 

Lily managed a weak smile, “No promises, but I don’t think murdering my partner wouldn’t help my chances at the simulation.” 

“What a reassuring thought,” Marlene said, just as Dearborn shouted, “Switch!” 

The two jokingly bowed to each other and set off to find other partners. Dorcas tapped her shoulder lightly, and Marlene spun around, nodding to her as they faced each other. 

“It’s been a while,” Dorcas commented briskly, as they walked a few paces away from each other, “haven’t seen you in the library as much. Not during regular hours, that is.” 

“I know, I know,” Marlene sighed, holding up her wand and waiting for Dearborn to announce the start, “I’ve been working on a project.” 

“I noticed,” Dorcas said coolly, “you usually let me know about your projects.”

“I was going to,” Marlene defended weakly. 

“Hmm…” 

“I just had to get basic research done. I’ll let you know about it this week. We can meet in the library in our usual spot, yeah?” 

Dorcas seemed to falter, surprised at Marlene’s easy relent, “Alright.” 

“And...START!” Dearborn announced, and a curse zipped past her, barely missing her cheek by a hair’s width. She raised her brows, almost challengingly, and she sent another spell back. 

Dorcas was unreadable. She was angles and steep slopes; the combined result was a striking look. She was not pretty by any standard (but there were plenty of other pretty Chinese girls to fill that role.) No, Dorcas’ stern, dark eyes and strong jaw, paired with a brusque Scottish accent made her iron incarnate. Her expression never twitched, never gave away her next move. 

Her grandparents and parents had taught her spells known only by witches and wizards in China, spells that the students of Hogwarts would never learn and could never hope to counteract. Dorcas was formidable, a slashing wave of elegance. She did not duel, she  _ danced _ , casting spells that Marlene could only attempt to block. Magic sizzled around Dorcas like a storm, tangible, and she exploited it for her own gain. Marlene was simply trying to get by. 

At last, Dearborn called the end of the duel, and Marlene noticed that almost all eyes and gaping mouths were on Dorcas. Even Dearborn sauntered over to her and told her she had dueling skills reminiscent of his old colleagues - high praise from an ex-curse breaker. 

She took the laudatory comments with a stiff nod, and the corner of her mouth raised imperceptibly. 

“I didn’t even recognize half the spells you threw out there,” Dearborn said, and there was something like pride glittering in his eyes. 

Dorcas nodded again, “Ancient Chinese spells, passed down for generations. You wouldn’t find them in a run-of-the-mill textbook.” 

“Brilliant,” he said, “nice work. Good job keeping your head on straight, Ms. Mckinnon,” he acknowledged. 

Marlene gave him a tired smile - dueling Dorcas wore her out- and murmured a quick thanks. 

“One more duel! Someone you haven’t dueled before. And then we’ll get settled back in our seats and take some notes.” 

“Up for it, Mckinnon?” A taunting voice asked from behind her. She spun around to see Sirius, twirling his wand absent-mindedly in his left hand. His tall figure rocked on the balls of his feet. Shoulder-length black hair, gathered now at the nape of his neck by a band. Bored, glinting grey eyes. Dark brows paired with broad, square shoulders gave him his lazy, masculine confidence. 

“Alright,” Marlene said slowly. 

Their last encounter had not ended well. He had come seeking peace, and she had brushed it away with fear and prejudice.  _ Watch out for those Blacks, Gaolach. You never trust a Black. Not with your money, not with your friendship, and definitely not with your life.  _ They had come one step forward and two steps back. 

“START!”

The stinging hex cut across her nose, and she was too slow and surprised to avoid it. She let out a breath and gingerly touched her face, feeling the indents of a slash that whipped across the bridge of her nose. Sirius almost grinned. 

So, the dog was out for blood. 

He was relentless, throwing a barrage of hexes and curses (some, she was sure, were not approved for school). She countered them, holding her stance. If she started to back up, she’d be losing a chunk of her pride. A hex slipped through her shield, clipping her ear. Her eyes widened when she felt the warm rush of blood drip onto her shoulder. 

“Afraid?” he asked, “like you were the other morning?” 

She composed her face again and continued to counter his attacks. He’d wear out soon... _ right? _ Fear crept into her heart. 

“Afraid  _ Sirius Fucking Black _ is going to devour your soul? Feed your heart to my dog?” He was angry, a hurricane, a path of destruction in his wake. 

“I’ve heard it all before, Mckinnon.”

She dodged a curse. Though she was barely keeping up, she had a sense that this was only a glimpse at the true destruction he could cause.

“I know why we aren’t mates now,” he said casually as if he was talking about the weather, “you’ve always been afraid of me.” 

“ _ Stop it _ ,” Marlene gritted out. Her wand arm was growing tired, straining under the effort. 

“Stop what?” he asked innocently. 

“This isn’t the time or place.” 

He raised a brow; it was the glove thrown on the drawbridge. It was a challenge. It was asking: If not now, then when? 

At last, her wand arm gave out, and her shield dropped. She thought fast, and levitated a desk from the outskirts of the room, sending it hurtling towards him. His eyes widened infinitesimally, and he sent it back her way. She tossed it to the side, and it went skidding across the wood. Her breath came out heavy. She was tired, she was  _ exhausted _ . Her arm felt like it was seconds away from falling out of its socket, but _ damn him if he thought she was the only one leaving with a scar _ . She had grown up with five brothers. Revenge and competition pumped easily through her blood, but she was sure it made up Sirius’ very core. 

The slicing hex surprised him. It left an almost identical slash across his nose as hers. It was almost poetic. After all, they  _ were  _ two sides of the same coin. He grinned. She wasn’t surprised. Sirius was a child of anger and abuse, forged in the burning sparks of fire. A child weaned on poison’s milk found comfort in hurt. 

She could accept defeat now that he would leave with a mark too. She barely even felt the stunner as it knocked her on her back. When she finally felt strength returning through her veins, she slowly sat herself up. 

Sirius was standing in front of her. He grimly offered her a hand, but she glared at it, getting to her feet and pushing away the proffered help. Once again, she felt the silence of the room, the terrible awe that pushed against the windows. The feeling that everyone’s eyes were on her. 

What was worse was the horrified look on James’ face. Maybe he didn’t know that beneath the skin of his best friend was a beast: a blood thirsty, rabid thing. Maybe he didn’t know that beneath the skin of his other best friend was fear and prejudice, bubbling and waiting. Maybe he didn’t know that there was a monstrous thing lurking in all of them. James had always been naive. His spectacles were rose-colored, and they loved him for it. 

Dearborn broke the silence, the breath everyone was holding, “That was,” he began to search for the right word ( _ violent? savage? _ ) “quite something. You two should go to the Hospital Wing for those scars. Mr. Potter? Care to accompany them?” 

James swallowed and then nodded. The class twittered with whispers. 

 

XXX

 

**The Quibbler:** _ A Notice of Retraction  _

It has come to  _ The Quibbler’s _ attention that the article we authored and published was flagged as problematic in a national database. In editions of the latest paper, it was proposed that the Ministry had falsified information concerning Healer Lisa Bonham’s death and passed it along to the  _ Daily Prophet _ , which  _ The Quibbler _ writers hinted at to be corrupt. 

The Editor and Publisher regretfully retract the article as there were undeclared competing interests on the part of the author. Furthermore, post-publication peer review raised concerns about the validity of the article, therefore the Ministry of Magic Research Committee no longer has confidence in the soundness of the findings. We apologize to all affected parties for the inconvenience caused.

 

XXX

 

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” Alastor said, standing in the doorway of Avior’s office. Avior slowly lifted his head up from the wide mahogany desk, forehead throbbing heavy from sleep and potion fumes. 

“What?” he croaked. 

“You keep on delaying the press release. It’s only a matter of time. The trial’s coming up soon. Wouldn’t it be better to let the public know now instead of during the trial?” 

Avior glanced up, his eyes weary, “The public can’t handle news like this.” 

“The public will  _ never _ be able to handle news like this,” Alastor spat. 

“We’re at a tipping point, Alastor. One wrong move, and the entirety of magical society will fall.”

A sigh, “I think you’re being dramatic, Avior.” 

Avior cradled his head in his hands, running a few shaky fingers through his greying hair, “I’m not. People aren’t happy with Minchum’s administration. They’re calling him paranoid, and unrest leads to anarchy in a situation like this. We need more time.” 

“We don’t have any more time! The woman’s to be tried in less than two weeks, Avior!” 

“Then we have to make a breakthrough in less than two weeks,” Avior stated simply. The mere thought of it sent him in a whirlwind of exhaustion. 

Alastor paused, “You’ve been working on the cure for over a year now. Has there been no progress since then?” 

Avior sighed, “Some. The disease is difficult and different this time. Harder to understand than ever.”

Alastor seemed to accept this with a nod, “What’s the real reason for the delay?” 

“I told you. The public would go in a frenzy if they knew there’s been a disease running amuck. The Ministry would be criticized for erasing memories, keeping it all quiet, making the parents of the sick children swear confidentiality vows. If we have to announce it, we have to have some progress on our side. A promise of a cure.” 

“No, Avior,  _ the real reason _ .”

The small office grew quiet. Overhead, the swinging warm light seemed to make the room uncomfortably hot. Heat gathered and pushed against the bookshelves and the one singular window. Silence filled the rest of the space. 

“You’ve heard about Voldemort, I presume,” Avior said at last. 

A gruff laugh, “Yeah. Shows up in the Prophet with five sentence clips every now and then.”

“I wouldn’t laugh if I were you, Alastor,” Avior said steely. 

Alastor raised a brow, “He’s a lunatic. Goes off spouting things about blood purity. He can’t actually gain a following.” 

“Don’t overestimate people. There’s been unrest brewing in the pureblood circles for a long time, and Voldemort is taking advantage of it. When it finally bubbles over, I don’t want a cure that extends life to fall into the wrong hands.”

Alastor made a low, assenting sound, “Maybe we should start thinking about a contingency plan. To hide the research on the cure. Worse comes to worst.” 

“Maybe we should,” Avior said grimly. 

 

XXX

 

James had walked side by side with his two close friends, his long legs making big strides to keep up with them. An uncomfortable quiet carried over them, and he looked at his feet for something to do. 

When they got to the Hospital Wing, Madam Pomfrey jumped up from her chair. Her kind, warm face grew stern with concern as she glanced at the pair’s matching scars on their noses. She gathered her wand from her white robes and instructed the pair to take a seat on the beds lining the cavernous stone walls. 

She tsked over the two, as her wand traveled along their cuts, scrapes, and bruises. 

“All you young folk, always getting hurt in skirmishes or,  _ Merlin forbid _ , Quidditch.” 

She brought Marlene to a screen to check over her bones and made Sirius wait so that his ribs could get a look at too. James leaned against the entrance, waiting, and tried to understand the shocking turn of events he had witnessed. 

The look that glimmered behind Sirius’ eyes was one that James had only seen while in his Animagus form. It was blood thirst and vengeance rolled into a grey iris. At last, Madam Pomfrey dismissed both James and Sirius. The scar on his nose was already fading, but Marlene had a bruised rib or two and needed some Skelegrow. Pomfrey advised that they leave and “didn’t dawdle.” 

The two sauntered out silently from the Hospital Wing, until at last, James asked, “Mate,  _ what was that _ ?” 

Sirius looked at him blankly, and when he answered, James knew he was being honest, “I don’t know.” 

“You have to apologize,” James demanded. There was anger laced in his voice, and there was the unspoken, “ _ I won’t forgive you if you don’t _ .”

 

XXX

 

He found her name on the Map, easy. Even in the night, even without his lighted wand, he probably could have found it. The curls of the M’s made it sound like poetry, ink swirling the consonants and vowels.  _ Marlene Mckinnon _ . What he found was not as pretty. She sat alone in the stone hallway, the grim darkness almost swallowing her whole. Her back leaned against the wall, legs extended, head tilted back. She held a cigarette in her hand, and it was burning. 

“You hate me,” he said, and she, startled, glanced up at him with surprised eyes, nearly dropping her cigarette. 

“What?” she asked hoarsely. 

“Do you hate me? Because you certainly seem to act like it,” he nearly spat. 

Her brow furrowed, “I don’t hate you. Why would you think that?” 

“You looked at me as if I was worse than the vermin underneath your foot. At breakfast the other day.” 

“Sirius-” 

“So do you hate me?” 

She took a small puff of her cigarette, “No. I thought it was the other way around, frankly,” she said cooly. 

He took a seat on the ground beside her, a foot away, “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I did it-”

“-Seems like something you should figure out,” she said evenly. 

“You’re scared of me.” 

She raised a brow, “It takes a lot to scare me. But, you  _ did _ just attack me in class.”

“No,” he frowned, “before that.”

“Oh.”

“You’re not denying it?” 

“No,” another puff, “my grandparents told me the Blacks were sadistic scum. They had plenty of stories to fuel the fire too.” 

He laughed bitterly, “I reckon they did.” 

She shot him an unsure smile and took another puff. Night greeted them with her song: crickets, torches flickering, and sighs. It was almost peaceful, just the two of them sitting there. 

“You know,” he began, “I was angry that you were afraid of me for my name. I mean, of all things,  _ my name _ . I just thought...I thought I had proved myself to everyone. That I wasn’t Sirius  _ Black _ , just Sirius. That I was something beyond my last name.” 

“That’s fair. Still not a good enough reason for attacking me.” 

“Yeah,” he said, leaning his head back against the wall, “that’s fair too.” 

“You never answered my question,” another puff, “do you hate me?” 

“Not...hate, exactly,” Sirius began uneasily, “I think jealousy might be more of the right word.” 

“Jealousy?” she raised a brow, “that’s...unexpected.”

He scoffed, “Oh, c’mon Mckinnon. Like you didn’t know.”

“I didn’t.”

“Not everyone gets seven bloody owls from their family a day in the post!”

“Six,” she croaked softly, “not all of them write me anymore.” 

“Six is still fucking more than none,” he spat. He looked at her, and something about her seemed broken. His short-sparked anger began to subside. 

“Why just six?” he finally asked. 

The look on her face was almost heartbreaking, “Otherwise occupied, I guess.”

He sighed, “You’re a shitty liar, Mckinnon. Is...one of your brothers dead?”

In his words was the unspoken  _ Manning _ . She swallowed and took another puff. 

She closed her eyes and at last said, “May as well be.” 

Something in her erupted, and a sob came to her throat. Sirius, unsure of what to do, edged closer to her and eventually put his arm around her shaking shoulders. He rubbed her arm slowly and swallowed, something reminiscent of guilt bubbling in his chest. He did not have anything to say. So they sat in silence. 

 

XXX

 

**Daily Prophet Headline:** _A Week After Healer Lisa Bonham’s Tragic Death, the Accused Murderer Will Stand Trial in Wizengamot In Two Weeks._

 

XXX

 

The alley was plunged in darkness. He had been gaining more and more traction, and as a result, he had become more and more wanted by the proper authorities. His hiding places had become spots like slick, greasy alleys where prostitutes reigned and claimed their territory, the embodiment of all he hated about the Muggle world. The dirty, the disgusting, the lowest of the low.

His cloak let him blend in with the shadows, and the silver watch on his hand ticked impatiently. It, too, knew that his companion was late. 

At last, he arrived in a swirl of night. The crack of apparition was masked by the silencing spell he had cast in preparation. 

“You’re late,” he warned. 

“I know. I’m sorry, my lord,” the man gasped out. 

Voldemort raised a cocky brow and began pacing, his wand held firmly in the hands clasped behind his back. His face still bore signs of a handsome youth. The horcruxes had not completely obliterated his good looks, but he did look sickly pale, and in the night, when the shadows inhabited the gaunts of his cheeks and hollows made by his angular face, he looked terrifying. 

“The trial is in two weeks. Are you ready? Has everything been set in place?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“You erased all traces of the Imperius from your wand? And from the woman?” 

“Yes,” the man said and then seemed to remember himself, “my lord.” 

“Mhmm,” Voldemort made a pleased sound, “you were very clever this time. Cleverness is rewarded among my followers.” 

“Thank you, my lord.” 

“How are things with the team? The research for the cure?” 

“Coming along slowly,” the man informed him, “but my assumptions were correct. They’re rushing to provide something for the trial. They’re being careless, haphazard. They’ll leave their research out in the open soon. And when they do-”

“You’ll bring it to me first opportunity you get.” 

“Yes, my lord.” 

“The Ministry is about to fall, do you feel it?” Voldemort uttered, and his breath came out in wisps in the cool night air, “announcing the disease is going to make their very foundation crumble. You  _ were _ right. Having someone kill that Bonham woman was the linchpin in our plans.” 

“Thank you, my lord.” 

 

XXX

 

In The Leaky Cauldron, conversations drifted in the air easily, and witches and wizards, who had seen better days, nursed their cloudy glasses of firewhiskey. Tom, the barkeep, wiped down the bar with a wet rag and a lazy wand. Music and news came out in static from the Wizarding Wireless. Tom hit it with a hand, and it began to play smoothly again. The dusty chandelier swung from a water-stained ceiling. 

Alastor and Avior sat in a dark, dingy corner. 

“Your entire plan rests on the shoulders of a sixteen-year-old girl,” Alastor said, narrowing his eyes, “why her? You have six children, don’t you? Surely one of her older brothers is stronger.”

“Marlene’s the most resourceful out of the bunch.”

“Really? Always thought that was more of a Slytherin trait. Don’t you have a boy who was in Slytherin?”

“Maddox. He’s in Wizengamot and not skilled at Occlumency. He’d be vulnerable.” 

“But still, why the girl? I don’t think she’d be great at Occlumency either.” 

“She’s safe at Hogwarts.” 

“Ah,” Alastor said and took a gulp of Ogden’s. 

He asked uneasily, unsure, “You think she’ll figure it out?”

“She will. She’s a bright child.” 

They pondered on the thought for a while, and they both grimly looked over their contingency plan. 

Avior started, “Alastor...should anything happen to her-”

“-I’ll make sure she’s safe.”

“Promise?” 

“Swear it on my left eye.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I now know how long I plan for this novella to be, so updating should be faster! Definitely want to crank out another chapter before the end of the month! Thanks to all who read, especially those who leave kudos and comment!

**Author's Note:**

> I've been playing around and planning this fanfiction for quite some time. What initially began as a silly, petty Marauders fanfiction (centered around Marlene and her fancying of Sirius) turned into a full-fledged novella with multiple plot arcs and a time frame of four years. I truly hope you enjoy. Writing is slow going, but I usually can crank out a chapter in two weeks.


End file.
